Después de la Tormenta
by theghostwritersociety
Summary: CONTAINS SPOILERS. "Screams and explosions became distant and later it was the silence of abandoned lives and sweeping death that unsettled the darkness. Their only comfort was in each other." Lix/Randall following 2x06. First fic. Please review.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I've always been a fic-reader but never a fic-writer. Kindly bear with. This is a character study of Lix/Randall immediately following the series two finale of "The Hour," and I am willing to expand further and actually make stuff happen should you wish. [I do have a massive headcannon for these two.]  
DISCLAIMER: I don't own them. Wish I did. Just borrowing.**

1

The noise and confusion had escalated to a point beyond endurance and she found her world suddenly muted. Light and sound seemed to travel faster than her senses could perceive and her movements—that is, when she finally found strength to move—lagged even behind the direction of her paralysed mind.

Air.

Was it survival instinct that finally struck her into motion? She suddenly became aware of a panicked sweat, and the heady stench of worry and disinfectant began to constrict her throat and sting her eyes. Almost gagging, she lurched clumsily for an exit, found it and stumbled desperately into the cool night.

Lix allowed her knees to sink, collapsing on the steps at the foot of the east-wing exit. The hard, concrete discomfort was a welcome source of pain. A stiff night breeze whipped her from the suffocating fog, curling its icy fingers about her bones and her tremble became a shiver. The night hurt, but this pain had a kind of clarity unlike the muffled chaos that had echoed down the hospital corridors. Grateful, Lix allowed the cold to consume her.

They had arrived, all frantic and screeching tires, in Hector's car. It had been a horrific blur, her body seemingly accelerating whilst her mind flailed behind amidst a conflict of logic and instinct. Wildly, Lix found herself wondering where Hector had parked the car. The absurd thought was all her mind could muster in it's now numbed state, yet triviality was an odd relief from other questions of which she could not begin to fathom an answer. More absurd, she began to ponder how she would get home if she failed to locate the car. Did Isaac's car also pursue the ambulance? Or had he been in the back seat of Hector's Morris Minor? Was Isaac even here at all?

The haze, now the numbness, it was too frustrating. Lix strained to clear her thoughts but these efforts only began to concentrate them on that same, shocking image.

There had been a shadow on the lawn, morphing into a hideously twisted figure as they approached. Blood sparkled grotesquely in the torchlight and Lix was reminded disturbingly of an ancient saintly martyr. Bel, cradling Freddie's battered head in her lap, crowed and rocked and began to wail madly.

Figures moved swiftly, urgently, yet Lix remained frozen. It conjured images from another time too terrifying to dare consider and she was engulfed in horror. There had been blood then, too; violent executions left great spatters of it in the streets and those shattered women also rocked and wailed. There had been screams—the animalistic sound of primal fear—and panicked shouts behind the forceful voice of riots. These images, these sounds, there was no escaping them and in an instant Lix was transported back to war, a broken nation and the equally broken body of a young man dumped unceremoniously off the back of a military truck in a central Madrid square as she breakfasted at a nearby street-side café.  
She closed her eyes then.

Somehow she had made it to Hector's car—had someone dragged her, pushed? She couldn't recall. There was only that rising panic of being met with a world she thought she had left well behind. It was sickening, made worse by the glaring white of the hospital corridors and memories of children cradling their wounds in queue for a bed. The returned nightmare tormented her sanity and her consciousness; she wanted nothing more than to be shaken awake. Thus it was, with foul bile rising in her throat and that haunted mist descending, that Lix had stumbled from Freddie's bedside and sought respite in the cool night air.

**A/N: In case you're wondering where this is going, I'm attempting to slowly reveal Lix/Randall's past through their [headcannon] interactions and contemplations. Randall next chapter. Please review! Cheers. [Oh, and I have no idea what car Hector drives. Please forgive me.]  
UPDATE: I've tried to fix the paragraphing issue. And now I've added more chapters, I can honestly say it gets way better. Please persist through my dodgy handywork.**


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: They're not mine. If they were, I'd be rich. As it is, I'm not rich and not getting richer for writing about them.**

**2**

Randall sat stiffened in the driver's seat, hands still grasping the steering wheel. The car was freezing, his breath formed clouds about his head and still he dared not move. He allowed only his eyes to shift—although dry and sore in their sockets from the icy air—to survey the scene ahead of him.

His car, stationed at the rear of the parking lot, had a comfortably distant view of the illuminated hospital buildings. Despite the encroaching darkness, light blazed from the windows and lit the landscape in an eerie glow. It was not the kind of light that evoked life; rather, it gave the image of a great, blinking electricity box, live-wired and pumping a buzzing current like a perverse form of clinical heartbeat. From this position, Randall had observed his distraught colleagues screech into the parking lot, sprint across the asphalt and burst into the main entrance of the building in a matter of seconds. The distance of his observation created a sensation of odd detachment in Randall; he could consider their panic a separate entity from his own, and in this certainty he found a strange comfort. While he stayed unmoving in his car he would feel only his own fear, apprehension and guilt, and on his own these feelings could be dealt with in a manner of near-composure—a practice with which he was by now well familiar. This, of course, could be considered cowardice, yet the cumulative events of the day, the adrenaline of the evening's broadcast and its ensuing tragedy, combined with his own desperate need for control left him pinned to his seat. He would visit Freddie once he saw sign of the others leaving. He could address them tomorrow. Movement now would result in that familiar debilitating panic, which, he assured himself, was not only agonising but also unhelpful. He would face the night's horrors on his own with only the battered body of Freddie as witness.

This resolve wavered, however, as he observed a slim figure stumble into the night from the east-wing exit. Suddenly his thoughts strained at their reigns, threatening to career off madly at this abrupt assault on his former certainty. The figure collapsed onto the uppermost concrete step leading from the glowing doorway to the car park and slumped her head into her trembling hands, her crumpled frame illuminated in a soft silhouette from the light behind. Randall swallowed hard on the lump forming in his throat. He would not think back to the morning and that file and the contents of his desk strewn madly across the floor. Freddie was their concern now, their responsibility and source of aching guilt.

Randall's eyes nonetheless became fixated on Lix's quaking frame. He could not turn away. With renewed horror, he realised that she was unmoving, as still in her grief upon the concrete step as he was rigid in the seat of his car; her words from the morning echoed hauntingly in his ear, "I can't move." At this memory, he felt a deep burning ignite in his chest. The agony of grief seared through him, causing him to gasp and instinctively release his grip on the steering wheel to clutch his knees. Randall bent his head and squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, shuddering. This was why he could not lead his colleagues in a frantic rush to Freddie's bedside. This was why he must suffer alone. The memories, the physical hurt, it was too great to bear.

The moment passed and Randall shook as his eyes returned to Lix's distant, broken form. He knew exactly what her pain was. He knew the images branded forever in her mind, forever hidden in a small cardboard box behind the coats in his wardrobe. The photographs documented an absurd juxtaposition of lives; around them bodies littered the streets—he recalled a group of anti-nationalist teachers executed in front of their students and their corpses hung to dry from the trees in the playground—while they, a group of young and naïve field journalists, sat in safety on the rooftops, taking for granted the protection of their passports and nicking whisky from abandoned liquor stores.

At first it had been a game. Lix had clamoured to attend the riots, her dedication to the perfect photograph disguising her thirst for danger. Randall had been more calculating, his rashness and careless juggling of peril inspired by journalistic instincts and a ludicrous belief in a sense of honour for those delivering news to a nation. They were horrified by what they saw; then they became immune, unflinching. They learnt quickly that it was much easier to view life through a lens than it was to tarnish the naked eye. They called their photographs "artwork" and drank excessively.

Fear encroached upon them only at nightfall. At night one cannot escape the sounds and sleep becomes cruelly evasive, he learnt. Screams and explosions became distant and later it was the silence of abandoned lives and sweeping death that unsettled the darkness. Their only comfort was in each other.

Randall grasped the door handle and swiftly exited the car before he had time to register his own movement. Consumed by loss, he started impulsively towards the east-wing exit. Twenty years of grief for their lost innocence; twenty years of grief for the victims of Franco's war; twenty years of grief for their daughter; grief for peaceful sleep and for Freddie now lying next-in-line at death's door.

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Thanks for reviewing. Chapter three will involve some L/R interaction and more of their shared past will come to light. The plot will then pick up pace in Chapter four with a little more action and interaction with other characters. Now I just need to write it...  
****UPDATE: I've tried to fix the paragraphing issue. And now I've added more chapters, I can honestly say it gets way better. Please persist through my dodgy handywork.**  



	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry about the wait. Christmas/life/etc.  
DISCLAIMER: If they were mine, I would be a British writer called Abi Morgan. I'm not a British writer called Abi Morgan [nor do I pretend to be] therefore they are not mine. Not only is this logic, it is also true.**

**3**

He sat on the concrete step without meeting her gaze. She had raised her head from her hands as she heard him approach and watched him, knowing he would not deign to meet her eyes.

"Where've you been?"

Randall silently slipped a cigarette between his fingers, ignoring her. He placed it to his lips and cupped a flame to the tip, inhaling briefly before offering it to Lix. She accepted, eyeing him.

The first time Randall had offered her a cigarette they were in Madrid, leaning into the cool night from an upstairs hotel balcony. The memory flashed before her eyes without warning and she blinked hurriedly to hide her surprise. Yet the playback persisted.

* * *

"Do you—?"

"Yes. Ah…here."

Lix allowed the acrid smoke to warm her lungs. The heady tobacco loosened her headache's pressing grip on her temples and as she exhaled the soft, smoky curls caressed her numb cheeks and nose. Tobacco was expensive and this extravagance allowed her a wry smile.

"Get your own." Lix grinned at Randall's expectant gaze upon the cigarette resting between her pouted lips.

Randall raised his eyebrows and lit another.

Lix laughed and turned away. The man's sustained indifference to her persistent flirtation both unsettled and excited her and she was no longer certain whether she felt an internal flutter of irritation or arousal in his presence. Most men were either charmed or intimidated by her—she always sought a position of comfortable dominance—yet Randall remained an enigma, ever unfazed and coolly indomitable. It was not in her nature, however, to give up as yet.

"Surely you're not such a romantic to gaze at the stars, Randall," she smirked, following his eyes into the clear night sky.

Randall shifted so both his elbows rested on the wrought-iron balustrade and absentmindedly tapped his cigarette ash over the quite street below. "Ah, but there's nothing more terrifying than contemplating the stars, don't you think, Lix?" He turned to her then, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he knew her game.

Lix shot him an uncertain glance before quickly averting her gaze from his eyes, instead herself turning to ponder the stars. He was impossible. And right, as always. "Millions and millions of balls of gas and fire, larger than anything we could possibly conceive," she murmured. "That makes us terribly small." She shivered and felt suddenly foolish for remarking at all. Of course, it was obvious why he looked to the stars and it was by no means a romantic notion. "In an odd way it's comforting to know that our lives are insignificant. This war, as terrifying as it may be to us, is just a speck in the universe."

"Are you scared, Lix?" Randall shattered her deep reverie with another smirk. "I didn't know you to be afraid of anything."

Randall stubbed out his cigarette and promptly retreated indoors. Lix allowed her eyes to follow him unashamedly. She was at an utter loss with this man.

* * *

The final dying rays of sunlight had finally crept beneath the horizon, leaving a heavy darkness in its wake. Randall shifted slightly, attempting to coax warmth into his toes. Lix, he noticed, was shaking. He allowed himself another glance in her direction and was unsettled to see her cigarette tremble between her fingers and her shoulders quake. Her eyes were glazed, unseeing, as if her mind were far away, and a loose strand of hair stuck to her lip—she made no attempt to remove it. In fact, she made no movement at all, allowing her cigarette to slowly burn to a stub. Randall gently removed the cigarette before it burnt low enough to scorch her skin, stubbing it out on the lower concrete step. She looked up at him then, dazed.

Randall swallowed hard. He was shaken to see Lix in such a state and he worried that he could not help her, as he had so often failed to do in the past. The past sickened him—he could never be that man again. Impelled by this thought, Randall reached for Lix's hand resting between them—her fingers grasped the edge of the step with such urgency that the knuckles grew white. Randall took her hand in his and drew it into his lap, softly stroking a feeble warmth into her knuckles. The movement pained him; Lix never needed someone's comforting hand.

* * *

He had offered her his hand once when they had leapt from the throes of a rioting throng into the comparative safety of a side alleyway. She had ignored him, playfully swatting away his hand and grinning despite the imminent danger of the situation. In those early days she never allowed their skin to touch, even though she was constantly caressing the cheeks, hair and hands of other men. She was affectionate only with words for the sensation of their skin colliding frightened her with its strange intensity. He hadn't known that then; he was only jealous.

* * *

Lix's shoulders began to quake harder and suddenly she was sobbing. Her eyes brimming, she gasped and snatched back her hand from Randall's grasp. She buried her streaming cheeks and eyes in the palms of her hands and allowed her hair to fall across her face in an attempt to hide her anguish.

Randall understood, of course, but the pain of understanding was dull and hollow as a deep wound. While he had learnt to somewhat disguise his sorrow with habits of order and precision, Lix was prone to play a very successful façade of cool confidence [behind which she would rush to the privacy of the bathroom every few hours to ease her swelling eyes and then retouch the make-up ruined thereafter]. Seldom would she break like this in front of others, least of all him. Yet today, as Randall had only too painfully discovered, had been a day for the kind of anguish not easily hidden. Twenty years of it had built up to this, and Randall knew they could not go on burying the pain of their past for the safety of their own sanity. And for that, he drew her to him. With her head buried in his neck, her crumpled body furled at his heart, Randall knew both that he loved her and that this was the cause for everything.

**A/N: What will happen next?! Only I know (hehehe)... Keep reading! Keep reviewing! I promise this will be rewarding eventually. **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Yes, the chapters are getting longer. Yes, I do finally know here I'm going with this. Yes, I actually am starting to enjoy myself. Thanks for bearing with.  
DISCLAIMER: You've reached chapter four and nothing has changed in this department. I still haven't bought the rights. They're still not mine.**

**4**

At Randall's insistence, they returned to the stark light of the hospital corridors. The brisk wind had chilled the bone to a point beyond which it could be idly ignored and Randall, empowered by a sudden realisation of duty, felt an urge to "be there" for those around him—any effort to spurn the cowardice and self-centeredness of which he believed responsible for Lix's sorrow. It was a pitiful and much belated attempt to right a much larger wrong—this he acknowledged to himself sadly—yet anything was better than years of idly rearranging paperclips. So, with his lips cemented in a thin, bitter line, Randall staunchly led the way through the maze of flickering, bustling, beeping corridors to Freddie's bedside.

Lix was aware that Randall's hand was still in hers. _This probably looks bad, doesn't it? _She knew she should let go. Like so much of her life at the moment, rather than making things clearer this only further blurred the lines. There had always been something else with Randall; unfortunately right now she had no idea what that thing was. So she squeezed his hand tighter and followed.

* * *

They were at a General Franco supporters' rally in Andalucía when Lix had first allowed him to grasp her hand and guide her from the crowd. They hadn't expected violence—the rebels were few in the area at the time and Franco's supporters were fuelled by an aggressive certainty for their cause—but when a bottle was thrown into the throng from an anonymous rooftop the tenuous peace was broken. Perhaps they shouldn't have positioned their vantage point from within the crowd for suddenly a ruckus broke out around them and Lix, in both admirable and foolish dedication to the perfect photograph, made no attempt to flee to safer ground. She recalled glimpsing from behind her lens Randall's eyes widen in horror before she collapsed haphazard in his arms, blood and glass smattered across her cheek. She tried to brush it away but recoiled at the sight of her hot blood glistening across her palm. A sudden flash of pain struck her temple and she began to sway. He led her then, squeezing through the crush of bodies and angry shouts to a building at the edge of the square—a block of flats, ancient and narrow with colourful trellises supporting an invasion of overgrown tomato plants. They crouched in the shelter of the doorway and only then did Lix swat his hand away.

"I'm fine."

He eyed her reproachfully. "You need to clean that before it gets infected."

"Yes, seriously Randall, I'm fine. I can do it myself."

"You've got bits of glass in you." His eyebrows were raised, his mouth askew in half amusement, half exasperation.

She glared at him. "Just go and get the bloody photo."

He sighed, momentarily giving away his worry. "Take the keys, then. Clean yourself up." He gazed intently into her eyes, wanting her to know his concern. "Please, Lix. No more work today. I can't have you in any more pieces."

* * *

They reached the acute admissions and subconsciously dropped hands when met by the ward sister.

"Frederick Lyon? He's been relocated to Orthopaedics."

"Orthopaedics?"

"Follow the signs."

Lix shared an exasperated glance with Randall. He noticed her eyes were dry; slightly red-rimmed but dry. She had already recomposed herself into the tough, impenetrable Lix he knew only too well. _She's remarkable_.

"Come _on_, Randall." Her eyes widened at him impatiently.

He smiled slightly to himself. "I think I saw a sign that way."

* * *

Randall could recall another time, deep in the past, when Lix's impatience had made him smile.

They had crept into the bar on a whim, eager to quit the eerily silent streets of nighttime Madrid. The civil war had driven most families to the countryside and the city they left behind was populated mostly by socialist rebels and a gradually increasing number of rehoused nationalist revelers. A sinister sense of quiet abandonment infiltrated the usually vibrant nightlife of the downtown soho area where bars, clubs and cinemas used to spill into the streets with a joie de vivre akin to liberation. In some ways it was a form of liberation to enter the bars and allow oneself to feel the thrill of cool jazz, alcohol and flirting light the oft-dead fire of the belly. Although war had condemned the Madrid nightlife to a form of conditioned restraint, the bars and clubs remained still a source of relief from the harsh realities of daytime, where those who wished to forget for a moment such horrors could drink, be merry and do just that.

Randall was an eager drinker then. The bar, hazy with cigarette smoke and muted lights, was like a mirage for those with a thirst for alcohol. Such was Randall; he threw back his first three fingers of scotch with the enthusiasm of a half-starved man met with a horse. The liquor scorched his throat with a paradoxically cold fire, provoking an involuntary growl of both shock and satisfaction to rumble from his lips. It was then, when he unclenched his eyes for another glass, that Lix appeared suddenly before him. Rather she had flounced—her hair bobbing and skin gleaming in the smoky haze—and now stood, eyes widely expectant, hands on hips, looking down at him with an air of firm determination.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Loosen up a bit," she persisted.

He laughed and shook his head, raising his eyebrows above his glass as he took another sip.

She glared at him. "Oh Randall, you are so _boring_."

"No." He smirked as he downed the rest of the glass. "I'm not boring. I just need a lot more whiskey."

"Hurry up with it, then." When he persisted to tease her with a look of cool disregard, she continued, "If you don't, I'll just have to dance with someone else." Her eyes flashed, daring him.

And then he had smiled, his thoughts turned serious. "You really are bewitching, Lix." The words escaped before he had time to consider them and hung thick in the air.

Lix's eyes widened. She was surprised, but quickly hid it. "Randall—" her voice rang with a tone of warning.

Randall shook his head as if to recollect his thoughts and laughed weakly to himself. Maybe the drink had gone to his head quicker than it used to. Nevertheless, her apparition had caused a bolt of realisation to hit him like a sharp slap. He had to stop pretending he wasn't incredibly attracted to her.

Lix bit her lip and gave an anxious sigh. "Just drink up, Randall, so we can have some _fun_. I haven't had fun in so long." Her impatience was genuine now. She desperately needed to lose herself.

Randall finally nodded. It wasn't the time. What they needed now was to drink and dance and recklessly waste their petty cash on card games, not—dare he believe it?—fall in love.

* * *

The night sister on the orthopaedic ward was not to be persuaded any other way. "For patients in his condition we can only allow family visitors."

"His condition—?"

Through a crack in the curtains Lix could see a woman hovering at the bedside. For a moment she thought it was the nurse. However, the light catching on the woman's brooch gave away her identity in an instant. Lix would recognise that brooch anywhere.

"And what about Bel?" Lix pressed the sister smugly.

"Mr Lyon's _wife_," said the sister pointedly, "is welcome at his bedside."

Randall exchanged a slow glance with Lix, his eyebrows twitching. Had it not been for a drowning sense of worry, he would have slipped her a wry smile.

Lix whacked his arm half-heartedly with the back of her hand and turned away from the bed. Her eyes when she looked up at him were serious and sad.

"Like that's not a familiar lie."

His half-smile slipped and he nodded, looking away. His hands drifted absently to his tie and began to absurdly loosen and tighten the knot. He could not look at her as his hands, shaking and pitiful, attempted to control this suffocating sense of loss.

Lix squeezed her eyes shut briefly to prevent herself from rolling them. Turning to the sister, she tentatively spoke, "What is his condition? Can we at least have that?"

The sister nodded and referred to a note in her hand. "He has three broken ribs; his collar-bone, neck, jaw and right arm are also broken. He suffered several serious surface abrasions and he is also experiencing some internal bleeding." She shuffled through her notes, sighing. "We are confident the spinal injury will not have lasting paralytic effects but he will need extensive rehabilitation." She looked up from her notes then and spoke to them directly, her mouth thin and grim, "And we are still awaiting the neurology report."

Lix's mouth was slightly agape and desperately dry. Randall found the words for her.

"Will he live?"

The sister began directing them out of the ward as she spoke. Her tone was dry, cruelly expressionless. "That depends what you mean by 'live'. It is likely he will never talk, let alone walk, ever again."

The sister closed the doors behind them and Lix and Randall were alone in the corridor. The space seemed suddenly vast. Lix's hand covered her lips in a pathetic attempt to hide her horror; Randall pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. They both felt suddenly nauseous.

"Please. Let's go. I need to go home." Lix spoke quietly.

They headed down the corridor, side-by-side, not touching and avoiding each other's eyes. It had been a cruel way to come crashing to earth; Lix and Randall had just realised that their own shared problems were pathetically small.

**A/N: If you've read this far, oh my goodness I love you and you are fabulous. Thank you! Rewards are coming up! The Lix/Randall situation is hotting up in both the present and the past. Woohoo!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: [About Chapter 4] I'm sorry, no fibre of my being will ever allow me to kill off Freddie. Just saying.  
DISCLAIMER: The answer is no, they're not.**

5

The studios had the rather unsettling air of an abandoned ship when they returned in the early hours of that morning. In the frantic disorder following Freddie's dramatic arrival, a mangled mess on the front lawn, no one had bothered to close up the building, let alone turn off the lights and pack down the set. To Randall this was opportunity to cool off in the only way he knew—he set about calmly flicking light switches and closing doors, shifting stacks of paper and collecting empty teacups with the careful eye of a master surveying his stock.

Lix retreated to her office and sank gratefully into the corner armchair. In that moment of solitude she let out a soft groan, massaging her temples and cursing quietly.

"Shit." Her hands moved to hide her face and she closed her eyes slowly. "Bloody hell."

A sound from the doorway caused her to jump and her eyes fluttered open wearily.

"What."

"Tea." Randall moved into the shafts of moonlight slatted between the lowered blinds. He held two mugs in his hands and his expression was empty.

"Um. Right."

Randall moved to pass her a mug but her words cut him short. "No, you'll need to drink some of it first."

Randall raised his eyebrows, "It's not poisoned."

"Too full."

He continued to raise his eyebrows as the mug met his lips. His eyes did not leave hers; the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement.

Lix rolled her eyes. "Some of us are definitely _not_ tea-total, Randall." She reached behind her chair and resurfaced gripping an empty bottle of whiskey. "Shit."

Randall's ensuing chuckle caused him to splutter rather comically into Lix's tea.

"Don't. There's a bottle in the cupboard behind you," she sighed, too weary to glare at him.

Randall obligingly topped up the mug with whiskey and smiled sadly to himself. For some people it was a new hobby like fishing or crochet, or a radical haircut. He had become the eccentric and obsessive recluse. And Lix's response to heartache was the most common and effective of all—to get blindly and gloriously drunk. He handed her the mug and received her thanks in the form of a curt nod—her lips were once again courting a cigarette.

Lix leaned forward to tap the accumulating ash into an ashtray and took a grateful gulp of the tea-and-whiskey concoction. Randall had moved to perch against the edge of her desk and she twisted to survey him, long-limbed and shadowy, as he gazed fixated at the vortex created by swirling the tea in his cup. He did not look up and Lix took the moment to examine him undisturbed.

He had very beautiful hands, she remembered that. Long fingers, graceful but not effeminate for the commanding manner in which he wielded them. His hair, silvery now, was parted neatly and the waves contained, no longer falling across his forehead in that endearingly haphazard way. He still wore the charcoal suit and maroon tie from the previous day, crisp and uncreased, and his glasses perched on his nose gave him a surprising air of mental agility for four o'clock in the morning. His face was thin and papery, mouth turned sour and cheeks gaunt from a two-decade diet of cigarettes and squashed toast consumed at obscure hours. He had been handsome in his youth. Little was left of that naïve vigour, but the man that was currently sipping tea in her office still retained an almost disarmingly spirited deftness from those earlier days. His movements, the flicks and twitches of his fingers and eyes, were swift and nimble. Those willowy limbs, lithe as his acerbic tongue, could spring from a corner like he had once done with a camera in his hands. While his expression was no longer bright, Randall yet retained a sprightliness of body and mind that left those in his presence struck under his unwavering command. _This is how he tells stories._ He was still so enigmatic, eccentric and exciting behind that smooth façade.

Lix narrowed her eyes and smiled, suddenly thoughtful. There was his concealed energy again, so familiar from those days when his mind would buzz feverishly as he idly dragged on a cigarette. It had been as if he'd consumed a firework but decided not to tell anyone. But Lix had always known. She had always felt the fire there, burning behind every glance, every touch and smile.

Randall could feel her eyes on him. He glanced up and caught her gaze, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

Lix held his gaze unwaveringly. Her expression was cool, unreadable, as she languidly blew a curl of cigarette smoke into the air about her head.

"I remember when you first kissed me, Randall."

Her expression remained unchanged; his eyes widened in silent surprise.

"So do I…"

Lix glanced away then, suddenly embarrassed. Staring instead at the cigarette rolling between her fingers, she continued.

"Yes." She let out an empty laugh. "It was raining. You didn't want us to get our cameras wet."

Randall cleared his throat slightly. Stealing a glance at him from beneath her eyelashes, Lix noticed his eyes dance across the room, avoiding hers expertly.

"And so we ran, didn't we." She was staring boldly at him now, daring him to meet her eyes. "And you said—"

Randall's eyes rolled to meet hers. "I said that you were wet."

Their gaze was locked now. In an absurdly paradoxical way they were both battling each other and celebrating defeat.

"Yes," Lix spoke quietly. "You said I was wet and I laughed because you were wet too. Everything was wet; our clothes and shoes and hair and our photos, which were ruined."

The memory was clear to them both at once. They were standing in the doorway of a bookshop. Randall's head was stooped slightly [the ceilings of these terraced shops were low due to a late renaissance fashion] and Lix had giggled. His glasses had been peppered with water droplets from their run through the rain and Lix promptly removed them, attempting to dry the lenses with the cuff of her sodden blouse. The futility of her efforts turned her laugh slightly hysterical. Randall peered at her through the blur his poor eyesight could perceive and raised his eyebrows in amusement at the drops of water clinging to her eyelashes.

"You're wet," he said in half humour, half exasperation.

Lix bit her lip and shook her head, replacing his glasses. "Yes, darling, well done," she giggled again, indicating her head toward the street where rain drove in sheets past their narrow shelter.

"I meant—"

_"—you're enchanting. 'Wet' just came out instead."_

Randall became suddenly aware of the proximity of their bodies in the doorway. He was stooped over her, their heads almost touching while their bodies were pressed lightly together within the narrow frame. The thought released a coil in his stomach and he felt a fire reach his eyes. Slowly, he raised his hand to cup her jaw and gently stroked a raindrop from her cheek with his thumb. Lix's eyes were suddenly wide—his movement took her by surprise—and he heard her breathing became shaky as she exhaled.

"Wha—"

"I meant—"

Randall moved closer and his other hand grasped the back of her neck. Lix felt a fire where their skin brushed together

"—this."

Randall drew her lips to his and they met softly. He gently tasted the corner of her mouth first, oblivious to the surge of arousal this sparked in Lix. His soft kisses were teasing and they weren't enough.

She raised her hands to clutch the hair at the base of his neck and drew him closer, parting her lips slightly as she did so. They fumbled together, their bodies aching for it yet hindered by a cruel unfamiliarity. Randall's lips came crashing then against hers, full on the mouth with a desperate surge of passion. A hand left her jaw and grasped her hip as he pressed her suddenly hard against the doorway. The movement surprised her and she let out a small gasp, throwing her head back against the frame. Randall released his lips and his brow furrowed apologetically.

Lix's mouth parted in a ragged smile; she groaned and her eyes flicked open lazily to meet his gaze. "What?" she laughed.

Randall let out a shaky laugh in return and shook his head, leaning in again to press his lips to hers with a gentle force. Bolder now, his tongue darted against her impossibly soft skin, tasting the inner rim of her lip. He nipped at her lower lip lightly, causing her to gasp again and the skin to blossom a full red, and he laughed into her lips as her hands grappled to pull him closer. His hand at her hip reacted, thrusting her harder against the doorframe until the flame deep in his abdomen raged a fire. Her nails bit into his neck and it was his turn to gasp.

"Randall!"

They broke apart suddenly at the sight of the two men running towards them. They approached from across the street, grinning and shouting to each other as they shielded their heads from the rain with the napes of their suit blazers.

"Oh, we didn't—" Derek reached them and faltered, noticing the pair still half-entwined. The reporter, young, blonde and embarrassed, looked away quickly to hide a smirk.

Frank joined them and wolf-whistled brazenly under his breath, exchanging a grin with Derek.

"There's, uh, there's another eviction happening apparently about a mile from here," Frank explained, still grinning.

"Right." Lix shrugged Randall's hand from her arm and pretended to inspect her camera. Randall nodded curtly.

"We'll just meet you at the bikes, shall we?" Derek said, eyeing the two with an expression of amusement. He left with Frank then, running off into the rain.

Lix sighed and allowed her fingers to trace her lips absentmindedly. "Duty calls, I think," she spoke reluctantly.

"Yes." Randall look out into the rain and wondered to himself if it would always be like this. Would there always be a story and a distraction? Would work and war steal them apart every time with futile promises of a reunion somewhere in the future? He sighed and gazed down at Lix, into her eyes. "You're much too precious to lose," he said vacantly, brushing a loose lock behind her ear.

"Well, I'm not going anywhere." In some ways it was a promise. Lix had found herself in these past few months to be increasingly captivated by this man, and at that point she sincerely believed there was not an entity on earth that could ever drive her away from him. She reached up to kiss his cheek. "Come, darling. Bikes. Story. Go."

And so they headed hand-in-hand out into the rain.

* * *

The air hung heavy in Lix's tiny office. Together their minds were reeling.

"Do you remember it all?" Lix whispered.

Randall closed his eyes briefly. Somehow this eased his pain. "Yes. Yes, I remember."

Lix nodded to herself, staring into the dregs at the bottom of her mug. "Can you go now?" she spoke flatly.

Randall looked up at her sharply.

"Please. I just really need to sleep."

Randall moved slowly as if in a daze, shutting the door quietly behind him. Behind it, he could hear a wracking sob.

The half-light of early dawn courted the blinds and shed a dull light into the still haphazard state that was the main office. Randall straightened his tie. It had been the worst twenty-four hours of his life and for the first time in twenty years Randall Brown desperately needed a drink.

**A/N: For reading this far, I am literally applauding you. **


	6. Chapter 6 Part 1

**DISCLAIMER: I asked Santa if I could have them for Christmas but Santa doesn't condone plagiarism so he said I could just borrow them instead.**

**6**

Lix awoke to the sound of hushed voices outside her door. Strains of grey sunlight feel in shafts across her desk as the day crept wearily awake, prodding Lix to wakefulness with a lacklustre warmth. She groaned and ran her fingers beneath her eyes, yawning. Her temples throbbed as her eyes adjusted to the morning's half-light and a dull ache ignited in her head. She dressed, half-dazed, and lit a cigarette before squaring her shoulders and braving the rest of the day that lay behind the door.

"Isaac. Darling." Lix smiled weakly and dragged heavily on her cigarette, allowing her body to sink into the doorframe of her office with what she hoped would appear an air of nonchalance. In actual fact, her headache was making the room spin. "How are you, silly boy?" She stepped forward and made to straighten the young man's lapels, the cigarette dangling coolly from her lips and dripping ash onto the linoleum floor.

"Well, uh—"

"Darling, you look _awful._" Lix spoke affectionately but noted Isaac's crumpled suit and limp hair with a sense of regretful understanding. She bit her lip, flicking dust from his collar.

"I'm actually just heading home, Lix. Mr Brown's closed the office today but I missed the message." Isaac indicated with a tilt of his head in the direction of a figure across the room. Randall was leant against a noticeboard, smoking idly.

"Oh." Lix nodded absently, her lips pressed as she glanced across at him. "Good."

"So I'll just be—?"

"Yes, off you go Isaac."

Isaac glanced furtively between the two before making his exit, his arms laden with files and bits of paper. The door swung shut behind him with an empty clang that echoed eerily through the quiet office.

"I thought I might get you breakfast." Randall straightened and stubbed out his cigarette, speaking flatly.

"Oh yes? My breakfast usually consists of a cigarette and a healthy serving of international news. But seeing as you've sent the office home it looks like I'm going hungry this morning."

Randall glanced at her sardonically. "One of our journalists has been seriously injured in the field. It seemed appropriate."

"Right." Lix nodded and looked around the room, avoiding his gave as it morphed into an expression of mild irritation. A stony silence ensued.

"The vice exposé was very successful last night. Drew record ratings." Randall's words barely penetrated the heaviness of the pregnant air.

"Oh."

"Mr Madden appears to have redeemed himself."

"Yes." Lix concentrated on flicking her cigarette ash onto the floor. Randall's awkward attempts at conversation made her at once frustrated and confused.

Randall fiddled with his tie, his eyes following a disconcerting crack in the ceiling. "We're already under fire from the BBC bosses over the business with Mr Lyon," he prompted. "Did great things for the story but it does rather undermine our journalistic credibility when one of our number is beaten up by a news source. Makes our methods seem…unprofessional. Amateur."

Lix's laughter failed to meet her eyes as she spoke. "This from the man who would literally leap in front of battle lines if he thought he'd find a story there."

A muscle in Randall's jaw quivered. "What Freddie did was foolish. But I'm not saying that I wouldn't have done the same. I know the intangible feeling when you realise the stakes of a story and the price you must pay to get it. It's infectious. It drives you insane."

"So are you condoning what he did?" Lix wasn't sure why she was quizzing him. The challenge felt necessary, as if they both still had something unspoken to prove.

"Journalism bypasses all laws, and where there are no rules one has no right to condone anything. But you were always a better anarchist than I'd ever be, Lix."

Lix smiled. Her cigarette had burned to a stub and she quickly pressed it into an ashtray, but not without spilling further specks of ash at her feet.

Randall moved towards her from across the room and stared pointedly at a patch where she had made a mess. "You've been awful careless with that cigarette."

Lix's smile widened playfully. "I did it on purpose."

Randall raised his eyebrows.

"I wanted to see if you'd notice." It had always been a private game of hers—the quiet disorder she would habitually leave in her wake would at times irritate Randall to distraction. But it was a test, too. When his anxiety was at a low, Randall's obsessive compulsion would waver and the mess would go unnoticed, or at least ignored. "I used to do this all the time."

"Yes, I know." Randall sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He felt suddenly very tired. His compulsion for order worked well as a source of relief but became terrifyingly debilitating at times. He hated that Lix ever had to experience it.

Eyeing him, Lix swept up the fallen ash from the floor and dusted it into an ashtray. She lit another cigarette.

Tired of his own weariness and her teasing, Randall lit another for himself. "Well, is that enough breakfast for you today or would you like to come out?"

The corners of Lix's mouth twitched slightly as she exhaled a soft plume of smoke. "Let me just grab my coat."

* * *

The little French café opened out onto the street with a bleak view of the Thames. It was called "La Tropézienne" after the sunny and beautiful inhabitants of Saint Tropez, of which the café's waiting staff could not be farther removed. The dour waitress slapped a menu on their little street-side table and pronounced the day's special in a broad, east side accent while Lix attempted to weigh down the tablecloth as it flapped in the quick breeze. She placed the salt- and pepper-shakers on the corners of the blue and white plastic sheet and grinned at both her ingenuity and the café's evident reliance on novelty to carry sales.

"The owner is actually French," Randall assured her.

Lix smirked. "Do you come here often?"

"No." _Every time the feeling of nostalgia becomes almost too painful to bear_. "The croissants are awful dry." He wasn't sure why he'd brought her, either. The decision had been a subconscious one and now he sat wondering what he was trying to tell himself. After all, these were Lix's memories too.

"Right." Lix's smile was fixed as she took in her surroundings. The stench of smog and salt wafting off the Thames was mildly reminiscent of the seaside smells of Montpellier. There were cyclists and rubbish and people selling newspapers just the same, but the romantic spark so well buffed by the French was lost to the damp, grey sky of London. Still, it was the notion that counted and she understood. Randall had taken her back to France.

"I'm having one of those awful dry croissants," said Lix smilingly, pointing to the menu. "And an enormous coffee." The last coffee she'd had was on the continent in the late 30s. She chose to momentarily ignore this thought.

Randall ordered two of the same, lit a cigarette and leant back in his chair to survey his companion over the top of his spectacles. Lix caught his stare and coughed.

"Randall."

He raised his eyebrows but otherwise remained unmoving. He reminded her somewhat of a chameleon: still and silent, one only recognising its remarkability upon second glance.

"Randall, what is that look."

Randall cleared his throat and leant forward slowly to rest his elbows on the table, meeting her gaze once again. He narrowed his eyes before laughing and shaking his head, looking away. For a moment he'd been in Montpellier. "I'm sorry, Lix. I shouldn't have brought us here."

Lix was taken aback. "Well…"

"We need to talk, don't we. And I haven't let that happen."

"I'm not sure that I—"

He interrupted. "Part of me entirely regrets joining 'The Hour'. But the other part, the _other_ part of me Lix, is just so grateful to see you again."

Lix coughed slightly on her cigarette and she stared at the tablecloth. _How is he always so direct?_ Quickly pulling herself together she spoke, "Well, Randall, I can't exactly say I was over the moon to see you. In fact you gave me a bloody heart attack. And so no, I didn't really want to talk either. And to be honest I'm still not sure I want to yet."

Their coffee and croissants arrived and the two were grateful for the distraction. _He was right,_ Lix thought, _the croissants really are terrible_. As they ate, exchanging the saucer of butter without speaking, another thought occurred to Lix.

"What were you doing in the office this morning if you weren't expecting anyone in?"

Her change in tack caught him off-guard and Randall paused mid-chew, surprised. He swallowed quickly then, realising he looked an idiot with half a croissant in his mouth.

"I drank a bottle of whiskey," he said slowly. "Naturally, I didn't go home."

"Really?" Lix grinned incredulously, comfortable now with conversation back in a domain were she could tease and make light. "Randall 'I'll-just-have-tea' Brown? I'm impressed."

"Don't be." His eyes were serious and mouth disapproving.

Lix nodded slowly, recalling another episode recently where Randall had lost control. "Why?"

Randall stubbed out his cigarette and took a sip of coffee. Leaning back in his chair, he began: "A starving man catches a fish and he feels two things. One, elation; he has caught the fish. The other, reluctance; he now has two options, one of which will kill a fish who is full and healthy, and the other which will kill him who is hungry and dying. Which option delivers stronger justice? To kill something whose time is not yet up and save another who will likely die soon anyway? It is hardly fair but, naturally, the starving man kills the fish. He is hungry and human instinct overrules even the notion of considering otherwise."

"I don't—"

"There are some things I have done in the past that I was reluctant to do. At the time, I could not see any other way even had there been an obvious one. Yesterday, however, I saw it all from the view of the fish and suddenly I could see all those things as if I had been a full and healthy man. For see, a full and healthy man who catches a fish feels two things. One, elation; he has caught the fish. The other, uncertainty; he now has two options, one of which will kill a fish who is full and healthy, and the other which will save a fish who is full and healthy. The man who is full and healthy bears witness to justice and the decision is entirely his own making. But I decided to kill the fish as a starving man, blind to reason and justice, when now I see I could have been kind and set him free." Randall shrugged and laughed to himself bitterly. "And so I had to drink a bottle of whiskey."

Randall had spoken entirely into his cup of coffee but looked up now to meet Lix's gaze. She stared at him, wide-eyed.

She knew exactly what he was referring to and the directness of his analogy made her shiver. This was exactly the subject she'd spent twenty years avoiding. This was why she had been frightened to see him again and it was the cause of nearly all her worldly sorrow. She didn't want to go there. But he had brought her there all the same.

They were in France.

**[To be continued]**

**A/N: To those who have reviewed, it is your words that drive me to keep writing. Your encouragement is appreciated so so so so SO much. Two other things: (1) I have no regrets at all about the "to be continued" thing [hehehe] and (2) I will be on a writing hiatus for the next couple of days because I have real life stuff to do. Thank you very much to you, lovely readers!**


	7. Chapter 6 Part 2

**A/N: We all have our own theories about these two, right? This is mine. [Also, the bits in Spanish don't need to be understood. Which is a good thing because my Spanish is pretty bad.]  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.**

**6 [continued]**

December 1937

In mid-December Barcelona finally gave in to the northern frost and the head of the BBC's Spain-based foreign news desk, Harold Tippet—having one morning discovered his hot water supply cut off due to unpaid bills—threw his camera at the wall in rage, immediately regretted it and granted his team of field reporters a brief holiday.

Randall had booked a two-person return train fare to Montpellier. It was the cash he had saved from not really eating, washing or buying anything at all other than cigarettes for the last six months. In spite of this, the figure that met Lix at the station on December 17th cast a curious energy lit by a fire of determination, fervour and the raving animalism of a man who has spent too long living by instinct alone. They made a striking pair: she tousled and disarming, eyes instilled with a near-feral vivacity; he bundled in a trench coat, agitated and grim mouthed.

The trip was four hours long and their papers became dog-eared from presentation to bitter-eyed officers at every stop. It was the first time in months that they had opportunity to speak, but this was relinquished gladly to the racing view from the carriage and a pile of British newspapers Lix had sourced earlier that day. The headlines were worrying: hundreds dead at Nanjing, Belgium submits to Hitler's Third Reich; their own pictures featured in an article titled "Franco gains power in Léon following Republican massacre" alongside "_Me & My Girl_ opens to critical acclaim in the West End". They were not offered food and both had not thought to bring sandwiches.

By the time they reached Montpellier it was late afternoon and the seaside town had already fallen quiet beneath the greying winter sun. They went in search of a café and found one not far from the station where a stiff breeze wafted the stench of salt up from the waterfront. They sat on plastic chairs and ordered coffee and croissants to a waitress whose sour greeting was evidence to her impatience to close for the day. Montpellier never had any designs for grimness but to Lix, who had accepted the offer of a holiday with an uncharacteristic sense of reluctant resignation, it echoed only her own impatience to return to work in the hope that doing so may see its end.

Randall had something to say but was briefly struck dumb by the notion that their last exchange had taken place three hours ago when he'd asked for a pencil. They had fallen completely out of the habit of speaking, to the point that doing so had become mildly uncomfortable.

"Lix," he began hesitantly.

She glanced up at him from the newspaper she had laid across the table. He noticed she had weighted down its corners with her coffee cup and croissant—both remained untouched.

Randall stared out across the narrow cobbled street at the view of the sea peeking between the terraced buildings. He sighed and felt suddenly consumed by a horrible sense of resignation.

"Lix, what are we going to do when this is all over?"

She glanced up again. The look she gave him—eyebrows arched coolly above widened eyes— was worryingly familiar.

"Will it ever be all over?"

Randall noted the tone of scathing in her voice. She was being nice; she had tried to hide it, but it was there all the same. He took a breath before continuing.

"Do you love me. That's what I'm really trying to say." He was staring intently at her; her expression shifted only slightly. "Because I love you, Lix, and that goes well beyond the war."

Lix hurriedly dragged at her cigarette and busied her hands weighting the other corner of the newspaper with an ashtray. She avoided his gaze and tried to coax her laugh to meet her eyes.

"Of course I love you, Randall."

"Well then, will you marry me?" He had meant it to be sincere but his tone was challenging. In spite of himself, Randall felt his brow lower bitterly over his eyes as he scrutinised the top of her head.

Lix had felt this coming. Swallowing, she stared at the cigarette between her fingers. She tapped the smouldering tip into the ashtray and, with an immense surge of regret, slowly shook her head.

Randall's eyes left her and he clenched his fists against the tablecloth. When Lix looked up at him, biting her lip, she saw only his head bent and his shoulders slumped. He felt her gaze on him then and quickly recollected himself in the single drag of a cigarette. He stood up and stood awkwardly, suddenly unsure of what to do.

"Randall—" Lix started, her eyes wide with guilt and worry. "Randall, I'm so sorry."

He began moving away, fumbling for his glasses.

Lix gasped slightly and moved to stand as well. "Randall, please—"

It was Randall's turn to shake his head. His laugh was mirthless. "I knew it had to be this way, Lix. I just didn't think—"

But what didn't he think? That it would happen so soon? He felt a fool and it was pride that led him from their table at the café in Montpellier and from Lix, seemingly forever. Reaching into his coat he produced her train ticket and laid it on the table, not meeting her eyes.

"I'm sorry, too," he said finally. He met her gaze reluctantly; her eyes were wide. Clearing his throat, he leant forward and kissed her lightly on the mouth. And with that, he was gone.

Lix stared after him, mouth slightly agape, as his figure shrank slowly into the distance. When he had vanished from view her shoulders began to shudder in physical protest. She grasped the table with one hand; the other shook as she inhaled desperately on her cigarette. Her eyes were squeezed shut. _Run away for too long and they stop loving you back_.

* * *

January 1938

Madrid in late January was cold but not unbearably so. In a freak show of nature, a blazing red aurora borealis had bled across the night skies of Europe on the 25th, while two days later the bridge at Niagara Falls collapsed due to a dangerous build-up of ice. That same day the German War Minister Field Marshal Werner von Blomberg resigned following the revelation that his new wife had previously posed for pornographic photos.

Lix's life, she found, was immersed entirely in these headlines. The news and the mission of delivering it had engulfed her. Therefore it was only natural that she should stumble into the icy street on the evening of the 28th and allow hot tears to scald her cheeks, her nails to bite her palms and her shoulders to shiver, for the news she had received meant her life was no longer her own to be so engulfed.

The doctor had confirmed her pregnancy in a matter of minutes and it had taken her that time again to comprehend his rapid Spanish. Of course, she had been certain of it for a few weeks now, but to hear it from another's lips brought a terrifying starkness to this reality.

"Es importante que se cuide," he had said. _You have to look after yourself._

"Sí." She hesitated—it was suddenly difficult to summon the language. "¿Cuanto tiempo?" _How long?_

"Quizás doce semanas, sin embargo es un poco difícil para deducir en este momento."

Lix shook her head, running her index fingers along either side of her nose and sweeping them under her eyes. Twelve weeks. She had tried to ignore it for a long time. But then things had begun to add up rather disconcertingly—morning sickness, raging mood swings—and by the end of January her stomach had begun to swell slightly.

"No, no. No debe fumar o beber." The doctor gently prised the cigarette from between her fingers and gave her a look of understanding. Lix nodded blankly. With no cigarette to reach for or whiskey to cling to she felt suddenly so very lost and in spite of herself burst into tears. She was a child again, shuddering and gasping for breath between the sobs. A woman appeared at her side with a glass of water but Lix covered her mouth with her hands and shook her head vehemently. She could no longer encroach on this man's hospitality—his clinic was set up in the living room amongst his children's toys and the fear in the house was still discernable beyond her own pain and confusion. She gathered her things, thanked the man and his wife and made to leave.

"Comprendo que es difícil pero por favor trate de ser feliz."

His words were gentle and she sniffed, granting him a shaky smile. _Please try to be happy_, he had said. But she could make no promises.

She placed a hand on her stomach briefly before wrapping herself tightly in her trench coat. Panic rised like bile in her throat, making her gasp. She couldn't stop crying as she stepped out into the cold.

* * *

_Randall Brown  
B.B.C Oficina de Correspondencia Global  
32 Carrer de la Concórdia  
Barcelona_

Wednesday, 16. March

_Randall,_

_In writing this letter I do not seek to make amends. I only ask that we meet, for there is something I must tell you that cannot so easily be disclosed in writing. My current placement is at the Madrid office and I can be contacted from there directly. I look forward to hearing from you soon in the hope that we can make further arrangments._

_Yours,  
Lix_

* * *

May 1938

The headline they had composed and subsequently sent to the BBC headquarters in London read "Franco demands Republican surrender". The Barcelona office was subdued; the accompanying photographs were horrific enough in nature to challenge those of the Republican massacre almost a year earlier.

Harold Tippet—having recently resigned citing mental health—had been replaced by a taller, sterner man, Marcus Grey, who now stood at the head of the central office, grimly surveying the motley crew of journalists and photographers sitting before him. The meeting had been called in such urgency that many had travelled through the night and now yawned behind a thin haze of tobacco smoke as they waited for the BBC's new head of the Spain-based foreign desk to begin.

Marcus Grey chewed idly on a cigar before using it to indicate towards an overused corkboard behind him.

"We are here seeking news. Those pictures and clippings—" he said, glancing at the corkboard "—are barely the beginnings of what we have found. Our dedication has been tantamount to our success and our success is testament to our dedication. Today, however, the BBC questions where we draw the line when it comes to selfless journalism."

At this, speculative glance shot across the room and a few mumbled quietly.

"Franco's new demands on Barcelona affect us directly in that our only safehold in this country is now threatened. The London office has no designs on withdrawing us as of yet—"

A hiss sounded through the room.

"—but would like me to relate to you all that an any field work outside the Barcelona province from now onwards is at the journalist's own risk. The London office is monitoring the situation here very closely and it may soon be recommended that a significant number of you return to London or report from an external base such as Paris. Until that day comes, I only ask that you never allow your dedication to journalism to stand between you and survival."

The atmosphere in the room now was deathly serious. All could recall a similar meeting a year earlier when one of their number had been killed in random shellfire by Nationalists in Léon. The reality of the situation when bared like this was disturbing.

Marcus Grey dismissed his team and they began to file out of the room, eager to vacate the office for its sudden air of foreboding. It was then that Randall saw her.

She was wearing a skirt—he noticed that first. That it was to cover the significant bump of her stomach, he noticed second. Hit by a sudden awful realisation, Randall found he could no longer move. _The letter_. Bitterly, he had ignored it. It had gnawed at him for weeks afterwards—the longing—but he had ignored that too. After having spent so long convincing himself he did not love her, his conscious mind scolded his instinct that he had no right now to feel that way.

"Lix." He surprised himself as the word left his mouth. He had not called so much as spoken, yet she turned around all the same.

"Oh." Lix swallowed. She had spotted him the moment she entered the room half an hour ago and had attempted to keep her eyes from examining the back of his head for the remainder of that time. To her dismay, her efforts to depart unnoticed had gone awry. "Randall."

Randall widened his eyes at her expectantly—the suitable ensuing conversation had fled his mind and in its absence were words he felt less than appropriate for the current occasion.

"Randall, I can't do this now."

"Lix—"

She shook her head in resignation. "Did you get my letter? If you had questions, you should've asked them then."

"How was I supposed to know?"

"How was I supposed to tell you? 'Dear Randall, the weather is bloody awful here and by the way I'm _pregnant with your child_.'"

Her words were met with a loaded silence and hung heavy in the air. Randall coughed and began to fiddle with the knot of his tie.

"What are you going to do?" he spoke slowly, unable to meet her gaze.

Lix pressed her lips together bitterly. "I have no bloody idea." She spat the words as if they were sour, but the anger did little to hide the tears pricking behind her eyes.

Randall opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. When Lix offered no further contribution he continued tentatively, "Lix, I'm engaged."

She said nothing, only stared at him with blank eyes.

"Her name is Maria Mendez—"

"I really don't need—"

"—she's a local journalist based here in Barcelona. We met buying photo film."

Lix nodded slowly, biting hard on her lip now to withhold her stinging tears. She noticed they were still standing in the doorway.

"I have to go," she said, slowly moving to bundle her coat around her. She suddenly wanted nothing more than to be outside for the air indoors had become oddly suffocating.

Randall gazed at her face as she turned away, his expression loaded with worry. "No, Lix, please—"

"What, Randall," she snapped. Turning to face him a final time, he saw her eyes flash in genuine anger. "What? You know full well we can't have what we want."

Despite her sardonic tone, Randall found her use of the first person plural "we" oddly gratifying. The truth of her words, however, were far from it.

"And what is it that we want?" he probed, his voice low.

She glared at him, but this effect was lost to her lips, which began to tremble. "I'm going before I start to cry," she said quietly. She clasped her bag to her chest and blinked hurriedly. "This can't be fixed."

Randall started towards her but stopped himself. "Just—"

She turned away.

"—write me, will you?"

Lix nodded quickly and hurried out onto the street. This time it was Randall left alone in the wake of someone else's horror.

* * *

_Randall Brown  
B.B.C Oficina de Correspondencia Global  
32 Carrer de la Concórdia  
Barcelona_

_Monday, 27. June_

_Randall,_

_I said I would write you—I will save you the trouble and ask that you do not reply. Your daughter was born at 7pm last Friday (the 24__th__) and I have named her Sofia. She was three weeks premature and so she is still very tiny, but she seems to be holding up rather well. I am not sure where I will live or what I will do now that she has arrived, but I only ask that you do not worry. _

_Mr Grey told us about the wedding. I'm glad—he said it was lovely. Please send my best wishes to Maria and I wish the two of you the best of luck._

_Be safe, Randall._

_Yours,  
Lix_

* * *

Randall folded the letter carefully and placed it in the inside breast pocket of his coat. His face gave away nothing but a grim expression as he considered its words. _Sofia. _It would stay there for twenty years.

**A/N: I hope mine is an acceptable explanation/speculation of their past. The remaining holes will be filled in the next chapter. Thanks for reading! Thanks for reviewing! You are all wonderful! And Happy Day-After-New-Year's-Day from GMT+13!**


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: Apologies for a slight lack of Randall in this chapter. But it had to be done. No pain, no gain, dear readers.  
DISCLAIMER: Oh that they were mine... But they're not.**

7

By ten o'clock the day had begun to swing into motion and the whizzing of cars along the curbside quickly impelled the two to vacate their table, tip the waitress and leave.

Lix felt relieved to return to the office. The familiarity of its minted walls and linoleum floor, the cluttered blackboards and filing cabinets spilling with confidential files and stashes of whiskey—it was all oddly reassuring. _The thing about the news_, Lix thought resolutely, _is that it is one of life's sure constants; it will always exist and this being so, I will always have an office at the BBC with a comfy armchair and a liquor cabinet._ She was also glad—although she was loath to admit it for the cowardice such a thought betrayed—to leave the French café on the Thames with its plastic tablecloths and uncomfortable reminiscence of Montpellier. She understood that it had been necessary, of course, but the part of her that increasingly liked to dominate these days—the little woman who squeezed her eyes shut, covered her ears with her hands and stamped her feet—was incessantly eager to block out these persistent truths and pretend they never happened. _Too bad the more I'd like to just forget it, the more Randall seems to want to remember. Bloody hell. The whole point of having the back of a drawer or the underside of a rug is to sweep things there. Enough with the bloody cleaning._

Lix collapsed gratefully into her desk-chair and lit a cigarette. With the absence of work to occupy her mind and a sudden wave of well-buried feelings left her grateful for the moment of peace.

A quiet knock at the door dispelled the moment instantly.

_Oh, just shove off._

The door opened without waiting for Lix's reply.

"Bel, darling!"

Despite herself and her desire for peace, Lix was pleased to see her. She quickly rearranged her smile, however, when she recalled the horrific events of yesterday.

"Darling, how are you feeling? How's Freddie?"

Bel shook her head and perched dejectedly on the corner of Lix's desk. By the state of her hair and the now crumpled dress she still wore from the previous evening's broadcast, it was obvious she had not slept at all through the horrors of last night.

When she did not speak, Lix persisted, "How is he?"

Bel sighed and began to slowly massage the bridge of her nose. "I really just came in to – to get some files… Nuclear armament. You know. Work stuff." But her red-rimmed eyes as she met Lix's gaze gave her away.

"No you didn't, darling," said Lix gently. "You can't hover at his bedside twenty-four hours a day."

Bel responded with a pained grimace, her eyes searching Lix's face with a sense of desperation. "They've operated already and they say they'll do another in a few days." She gave a shuddery sigh. "He's 'stable', whatever that bloody well means. I – I wouldn't say he's stable at all." She shook suddenly and hid her face in her hands.

Lix leant forward in her chair to squeeze Bel's knee. "Chin up, sweetheart," she said, gazing concerned up at Bel's buried face, "Everyone hates a sissy." Lix smiled kindly and Bel uncovered her face, offering a weak smile in return. Her cheeks were shining with tears.

"Yes. You're right," Bel nodded, wiping her eyes. She blew her nose into Lix's handkerchief and let out a choked laugh. "I'm sorry," she smiled wetly. "I've just been so, so worried about him."

Lix nodded and directed her into the chair beside her.

"They asked me to leave, you see. 'Give him rest,' they said. So I had to and I didn't know what to do with myself—I just wanted to be with him to make sure he was alright—and I was so angry with that nurse—I'm still angry actually—"

"Bel—"

"—and so I just came here. I can be busy here, you see—at home there's too much opportunity for thinking and worrying."

"Yes, I get that."

Bel groaned. Blowing her nose again, she laughed apologetically, "Sorry, sorry, sorry. I'll be OK in a moment."

"Sweetheart, it's fine." Satisfied that Bel had recomposed herself enough to sit upright in her chair, Lix lit another cigarette.

Sighing, Bel eyed Lix's whiskey. "May I?"

"Don't be daft—you need it more than I do right now." Lix sloshed a generous measure into two mugs and they settled in their chairs, each contemplating the events of the last twenty-four hours with varying degrees of exasperation and weariness.

The sound of the door clicking open behind them made them both jump.

"Oh." Randall stood in the doorway eyeing Bel with a look of mild surprise. His eyes searched for Lix, silently seeking explanation.

"Mr Brown has a bad habit of forgetting to knock before entering," Lix said to Bel, her eyebrows raised pointedly in Randall's direction.

Randall shuffled uncomfortably and made to leave.

"Mr Brown, would you like some whiskey?" Bel called after him.

"No, I—"

"Go away, Randall." Lix puffed at her cigarette and indicated her head in Bel's direction. _This is a therapy session and for once you're not invited._

Randall cocked his head as he met her gaze and leant coolly against the doorframe in subtle protest. His voice was low as he spoke. "I'll talk to you later. I'm just going out but I'll be back soon-ish."

Lix raised her eyebrows. "Right."

For a moment, Randall stood hovering in the doorway as if he were about to add something more. The unsettling feeling of the two women staring questioningly back at him finally coaxed him to tear his gaze from her eyes and leave the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Bel swivelled in her chair and gave Lix a quizzical look.

"What?" said Lix defensively.

Bel narrowed her eyes. "Why are you so horrid to him?"

The corner of Lix's mouth twitched. "I'm not horrid."

"Yes, you are."

Lix raised her eyebrows. "I really don't see—"

"You _are_." But Bel's eyes had begun to gleam with a worrying playfulness.

_"What?"_

"Oh Lix, won't you tell me what's going on between you two?" Bel pleaded, her red-rimmed eyes almost lost to an impish grin.

"There is _nothing_—"

"Yes! There _is_. Don't lie."

"No—"

"Everyone in the office thinks you're sleeping together."

Lix choked slightly on her cigarette. "We are _not_ sleeping together." She tried to inject a tone of disapproval in her voice but it was lost to a growing sense of weary resignation. "That was long ago."

Bel let out a quiet squeal and leant forward eagerly in her chair. "Lix, _please_ tell. I really need cheering up and gossip is a girl's third best friend after tobacco and liquor."

Lix groaned and downed her whiskey, glaring at Bel reproachfully over the rim of her mug.

"Gossip. Me. Tell. _Go._"

Lix sighed. "I'll need a re-fill," she said, waving her mug in the direction of the whiskey. When Bel obliged, she leant back in her chair and allowed her eyes to trail unseeing across the ceiling.

"This probably won't cheer you up," said Lix slowly, glancing at Bel.

Bel widened her eyes and nodded.

Taking a swig of whiskey, Lix began: "We met in Spain in the late 30s working as photographers covering the civil war." She smiled to herself. "He was a useless flirt—we were just friends for a long time. But then the fighting escalated and we started seeing things that truly shocked us. Blood and that. There were lynch mobs." Lix cleared her throat and took a drag on her cigarette. "Anyway, I was like a teenage girl, stupidly attracted to him—he used to make my heart beat in my mouth, that kind of thing. We put it off for a while because of the war but I think we both found we needed each other for comfort when things got bad." She laughed. "And I think he had some designs about protecting me because he got terribly worried. Unfortunately we were right to be hesitant about starting a relationship during wartime; it didn't work out at all. I think…" She hesitated then, suddenly of quite what exactly had drawn them apart. "Perhaps it was the anxiety… We barely saw each other out of the throes of rioting and warfare, and it certainly tore me to pieces mentally. There was just so much going on, you see, so many awful, awful things. After about six months we found we had nothing left to say to each other for we spent so much time living in genuine fear for our lives that normal conversation felt so menial. And then he developed that irritating obsession with neatness—that was how he dealt with it—and I think I must've just drawn into myself because I was constantly angry at everything." Lix sighed, swishing her whiskey about in her mug absentmindedly. "He took me to France and proposed, but I'm sure his heart wasn't really in it; he was offering me protection but we both knew we couldn't go on worrying about someone else because the pain of it hurt so badly. It was a mutual break, really." Lix sniffed and cleared her throat again, dragging heavily on her cigarette as if to wake her from a trance. She glanced at Bel at sighed. "It's not the most gratifying love story."

Bel was staring at her, wide-eyed. "But did you see him after that?"

Lix gazed at a spot on the wall behind Bel's head and allowed the cigarette smoke to blur her vision. "I moved away to Madrid. I only saw him once. I – uh – I was pregnant and it was a shock."

"Oh my goodness, _Lix_." Bel had her hand pathetically covering her mouth in surprise.

"To be honest, darling, I'd rather not talk about it." Lix tried to smile but it didn't reach her eyes. She reached for an ashtray and her hands shook.

"But what—"

"Her name was Sofia, I gave her away and she died," Lix snapped suddenly. Her lips were wobbling dangerously and she squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to pull herself together. It didn't work and tears suddenly pricked her eyes. _Why_, Lix berated herself, _do you have to bloody well cry every time you think about her._

Bel leant forward and grasped her friend's hand. "Lix, I'm so sorry, I didn't—"

Lix snatched back her hand and tried to hide her tears behind the mug of whiskey. The scorching liquor for once did little to ease her pain.

"Oh God, I'm so stupid!" she spat, her shoulders shuddering with the sudden weight of misery.

Bel gazed at her with wide eyes, not understanding.

"I took her to Paris when Franco claimed Barcelona and I left her with some neighbours when I went to take photographs in the field." She downed her second mug of whiskey. "They were a nice couple. She was with them when war broke out in '39 and when I returned to Paris from Amions I was told they had taken her somewhere safe. It was never official but she was gone, and I never saw her again." Her voice cracked. "But these last twenty years I thought she was alive. Bel, I always believed she was _alive_. And then we found out that she was killed in an air raid not long after I returned to England." Lix choked then, her eyes streaming. "If only I had gone sooner I could've taken her with me. She would be nineteen years old."

Bel reached for Lix's hand and squeezed it gently. "I'm so, so sorry, Lix. So very sorry." Tears were pricking Bel's eyes too, and suddenly they were both sobbing.

"Oh, this is pathetic," Lix laughed wetly, attempting to stem her flow of tears with the back of her wrist. She glanced at Bel and snorted. "You look terrible, sweetheart."

"So do you. You've got make-up everywhere."

Suddenly, they were both laughing and crying—an absurd conflict of emotion that caused them to gasp for breath between their half-sobs. Lix fumbled for another cigarette, found she had none left and let out an exasperated cry.

"Oh, this is ridiculous!"

"Oh God, I'm such a wreck."

"Bel, darling, _I'm_ the wreck—you're just scraping against the rocks a bit."

"I feel as if someone has severed my hand, placed a gun in it and used it to shoot my own foot."

"Someone? You mean Freddie."

"Life, Lix. Life has shot me in the bloody foot."

"Don't be so melodramatic, darling."

"Says she on her third whiskey."

"Stop, stop." Lix's eyes were streaming and she flapped her hands in front of them rather pathetically, blinking rapidly. "You mustn't insult the whiskey; he's been there for us in many a time of need."

"Or is that just the whiskey talking."

"Oh that it were, darling. Do you know how long it takes me to get drunk these days? Liver's made of steel."

But Bel had fallen suddenly silent, her tearful giggles turned to hiccups as her thoughts slowly clouded. Their hysterical tears had stemmed from grief rather than the throes of laughter and such a thought turned her sombre.

"Lix," she probed tentatively, "What's going to happen?"

Lix flopped back against her chair and allowed her head to loll backwards to stare at the ceiling. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed the heel of her palm against her forehead. _Am I tipsy or just exasperated? And since when did they become so close to being the same thing?_

"No bloody clue," she offered unhelpfully. Straightening herself up slightly, she peered at Bel through her half-closed eyes. She was anxiously tapping her fingernails against her mug, biting her lip. Lix sighed, suddenly sorry. "Freddie will get all better and you'll have lots of sex and babies?"

Bel shot her an exasperated glance. "What if he doesn't get better?"

"Sweetheart," Lix groaned, "You can't think like this. Just be glad for what you have."

"Are you glad for what you have?"

Lix arched an eyebrow and straightened in her chair. "Don't pity me."

"Because, Lix—" Bel took a breath, "—if you were truly glad for what you have you wouldn't have told me that story with such a mournful look in your eyes. You looked like the whole world had died and someone had lit their funeral pyre using your Bill Haley collection."

"I don't have a Bill Haley collection."

"Ella Fitzgerald, whatever—that's beside the point. The two of us, we can't go on living out of whiskey bottles and feeling sorry for ourselves."

"Darling, speak for yourself."

But Bel had been fuelled by Lix's emotional revelation and the accompanying realisation that life could be worse—she was empowered by the comparative certainty of her own love. "Are you going to do something about Mr Brown?"

Lix reached for the whiskey but Bel caught her arm and held her gaze stubbornly.

"Seriously, Lix. Listen."

Lix dragged coolly on her cigarette, emotionally impenetrable once again. "And what do you suggest I do? Fall at his feet? Carve our names into a tree? Cut out my heart and burn it on his desk as some kind of sacrificial offering?"

"Ah, so you do love him."

"Bel, I didn't—" She coughed on her cigarette to mask her hesitation. "I didn't say that."

Bel raised her eyebrows incredulously. Her expression softened, however, as she saw Lix's face crumple in confusion. "Can I just say as one woman who's had a bloody awful time to another, it was the constraints of friendship, affairs and marriage that kept Freddie and I apart. Now what stands between you and Randall?"

Lix shook her head. "It's not as simple as that. It's what's already happened that stands between us, and that can't just be erased on a whim."

Bel reached for Lix's face and gently stroked a stray hair from the older woman's cheek. "No one has a past that can be erased but we can't let that bring us down—we have to use it to better our lives instead."

Lix nodded slowly. "And _your_ past—?"

"Has never stood between me and someone I love."

She smiled at that. "And that's why you keep having affairs with married men."

Before she could protest, Lix was on her feet, clearing away the empty whiskey bottle and sweeping cigarette stubs into an ashtray. "Now scram, you," she said, the corners of her mouth twitching. "You have your man to attend to."

Bel smiled too and slowly made to leave. At the door, she paused. "And you have _your_ man to attend to," she said pointedly.

"Off you go. Telephone if there's any news."

Bel nodded, turning away.

"And, Bel—" Lix hesitated. "Thank you."

The door closed quietly and Lix sank against her desk, wringing her hands. She noticed how her mascara had obviously bled beneath her fingernails where she had wiped her streaming cheeks and eyes. Reaching for her powder compact, she fled to the bathroom.

**A/N: Thank you so much to those who have reviewed! You are all wonderfully charming and always succeed in motivating me to ignore the lovely summer weather and produce another chapter. Thank you, thank you, thank you. **


	9. Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER: You ain't gettin' nunfink outta me copper, I's jus' borrowin'. [They're not mine].**

**8**

In the week following "The Incident"—for the attack on Freddie was now almost exclusively referred to euphemistically—Mr Cilenti was refused bail, the production team on The Hour returned to work and the city of London saw almost incessant rain. By the time the show reached live broadcast a week later, there had developed a general air of weariness within the office and Hector found himself contemplating a holiday. His exhaustion was clear from the way his shoulders sagged and his eyes glazed over progressively as the show continued, reaching a particular low point during the interview with the elderly woman on how the Devon Women's Institute had prepared for nuclear attack—if Hector had his heart in something, it was certainly not his work.

"And now we turn to The Hour's new co-anchor, Mr Isaac Wengrow, to introduce the government's stance on these nuclear provisionary measures."

"Thank you Mr Madden—"

Randall gazed intently at the studio floor below and grimaced. "This is poor. Very poor."

Lix, standing at his elbow, nodded slowly, coolly exhaling a lungful of tobacco smoke through her nose and narrowing her eyes as the camera switched back to Hector. She observed in silence for a moment before slamming her fist against the desk in front of them. "Shit!"

Randall broke his gaze on the set momentarily to share with her a begrudging glance.

"Damn, Hector!" Lix stubbed out her cigarette bitterly. "Must he cut my content? Every time!"

Randall coughed and returned his gaze to the set, his eyes beady and nostrils flaring slightly. "Bel—"

Bel nodded, heeding Randall's warning look and leant into a microphone. "Dim the B-light on Mr Wengrow, please. And not so intrusive with camera A—we don't need to interrogate our guest." Bel glanced back at Randall, eyebrows raised. He nodded.

"But no bloody tick." Checking his watch, he sighed.

The broadcast ended amid a general sigh of relief—the show had felt almost unbearably forced and all were glad to quickly forget it. The set was packed up with unusual speed and the studio soon emptied into taxis and nearby pubs.

"Fancy a walk?"

Randall looked up from the sound desk in the producer's box where he had been idly switching all the knobs to their off position. Lix stood in the doorway, clutching her coat to her chest and cocking her head expectantly.

"I just need some fresh air."

Randall stared at her awkwardly.

She cleared her throat. "That's if you want to, of course," she added lamely.

"Ah—yes." Randall took a breath, straightening his tie, and attempted to rearrange his expression into an obliging smile.

"Right. Good. I'll just—?"

"Downstairs, yes."

The foyer was dim, neon light fixtures flickering absently in the encroaching darkness, when the two finally reconvened at the bottom of the stairs and together stepped out into the stiff night air. They were greeted by the chilly breeze of very early spring that bit the cheeks with the sharpness of slicing glass, pinching the skin pink and stinging the eyes. Their breath formed clouds about their heads as they huddled in their coats and bent their necks against the cold. Cars swept past in urgency to head homeward—the terraced houses lining the road appeared to press together in attempt to coax a warmth from the dim streetlamps, which barely cast their glimmer beyond the shadowy thresholds to the shivering inhabitants of Lime Grove. The sky was clear and the resulting moonlight shrouded the night in an otherworldly glow. It was as if the evening had been conjured by a magic beyond the rhythmic rise and fall of the sun and the gloomy streets of London were under its spell.

"Chilly," Lix muttered, pulling her coat tight to her frame.

Randall said nothing; the cold, he found, stung the senses and stirred the mind in a manner that was oddly thrilling. When he was a little boy he had once stood knee-deep in the snow that buried his back doorstep wearing only a thin pair of pyjamas and had closed his eyes, shaking not only from the pain but the sheer thrill of it. He had been cuffed hard across the ear for his misdeed and afterwards spent a week in bed with a bad chill.

"No wind is too cold for lovers," Randall murmured slowly.

Lix looked up at him curiously.

"I think that's a Ukrainian one. Or Polish—I can't remember," he glanced at her and smiled.

"What does it mean?"

Randall swallowed and allowed his gaze to cross the winking sky with a sense of absence and longing. "That nothing can touch love's enduring warmth, I suppose. Something absurdly abstract to that effect."

Lix shivered. "I'm fairly certain there have been plenty a wind too cold for lovers."

"Yes, well then my mother always used to say, 'Cold cools the love that kindles over hot,' which I guess means exactly that." He glanced at her, his expression unreadable.

"That's also absurd." Lix sniffed and buried her icy hands deep in the pockets of her coat.

They turned the corner onto the main street and Randall let out a small chuckle. "You never were the romantic, were you Lix?"

Lix smirked. "No, that was you." But she was unable to meet his eyes and instead fixed a blank stare at the lamppost down the street. "Definitely you. The way you used to _make eyes_ at—" She hesitated; "—at women, it was very—" She stopped.

"Very what?"

Lix sighed and spoke flatly, "Alluring, Randall. You were very alluring."

Randall blinked in surprise. "Yes—well, as were you, so—" He took a shuddery breath and slowed his pace to a stop. They were stood at the window to Kenny's Takeaways—a grey, peeling establishment decked with plastic chairs and lit from within by a harsh neon glare—toward which Randall indicated his head, "Chips?"

"I—"

"Downing a bottle doesn't count as having eaten."

Lix gave a quiet smile. "Right you are."

But she had been about to say she hadn't eaten chips since that night in Madrid when their craving for English pub meals had reached the level of obsession and the two had tried to shallow-fry a badly cut potato using olive oil in a frying pan which was subsequently deemed beyond rescue. She seemed to remember they had ended up with toast and a slightly damp packet of cigarettes, but it hadn't mattered—they hardly ate for all the time they spent together in bed.

Randall bundled the chips inside his coat to keep them warm as they walked to Shepherd's Bush Green. There they laid the greasy newspaper out between them on a park bench and absently watched a group of drunken youths attempt to start a game of cricket on the vacant, unlit common. Their shouts echoed distantly across the park and disturbed a stray cat, which shrieked and scarpered into the sparse undergrowth. Yet nothing, it seemed, could disturb the night hung like a single water droplet from a quivering wire; the crisp breeze barely caressed the air and all was still and silent.

Lix took a chip and neatly licked the salt and oil from the pads of her fingers as she chewed. She glanced pointedly at Randall. "Eat. It's something people usually recommend."

He had been sitting, stock still as the night, slowly turning a cigarette over in his fingers and staring blankly into his lap. The corners of his mouth twitched at her words but he made no movement to heed them. Instead, he spoke: "I think we need to give Mr Madden a holiday, if tonight's broadcast was anything to go by. I don't think I've ever seen—"

Lix interrupted, unable to hide the note of irritation in her voice, "Perhaps we all need a holiday." She was not in the slightest mood to discuss their work and its rapid downward spiral since "The Incident". She took another chip to prevent her from saying so.

Randall nodded slowly. "And what would you do with a holiday, Lix?"

She hesitated. "I—I used to think I would go back to Spain. But now I'm old and there's nothing more reassuring for me than listening to the distant flow of the Thames and knowing exactly where I stand on earth." She glanced at him. "But you, Randall—you would go to France."

Randall let out an empty laugh. "There was a life for me in France once, but not anymore."

Lix noticed something stir in him, like the twitching tail of a sleeping cat or ashes glowing in a once-fiery hearth. Her guesses had been wild, absurd—her mind had exhausted every eventuation of Randall's past since he had left her in Montpellier and now brimmed with the kind of possibilities that made her eyes flash and her impulses rage for another whiskey. She was torn between the desire to know and the fear of finding out. _But things have changed. We aren't living our separate lives anymore; we're sharing chips on a west London park bench in the middle of the night. _Lix took a breath and began to phrase the words that so frightened her:"You never told me what—"

But Randall had come to the same conclusion and interrupted her. "No, I didn't. But I should have." His expression when he looked at her then was pained.

Lix's gaze was aversely quizzical in return. "Randall, what happened to you?" She swallowed. "You and your—your wife?"

The silent agitation, the forgotten glowing embers—they were there behind his eyes. He automatically curled his fingers around the knot of his tie and absently loosened and tightened the Windsor—the idiosyncratic fidget giving away his discomfort. Dropping Lix's gaze, he spoke to the bag of chips:

"We married in the late spring of 1938, before Sof—" He paused and cleared his throat. "Before—well, I suppose you know this already. Anyway, we left Spain after Franco gained control of Barcelona—I suspect not long after you did. We went just over the border to Perpignan but crossed to Switzerland after Hitler took Paris and stayed in Bern until the end of 1941." He gave a hollow laugh. "I fancied myself a freelance journalist. Turned out anyone with a camera became a journalist during the war and I was just another man with a collection of shocking photos that people did not need to see to believe. So I joined the Allied troops stationed in the south of France in 1942 and stayed there until the end of the war." He swallowed. "I was shot in the shoulder and after that they placed me in an army office in charge of enlistment."

Lix chewed her lip to prevent a reaction she feared would betray her. "Randall, I—"

He shook his head. "And then after the war I returned to Bern and to Maria, but it became clear fairly quickly that both my absence and the fact that she no longer required an English passport meant our relationship had ended. And I was relieved, really. I went to Paris and after a few years I was picked up by the BBC as foreign spokesperson for France. It was a good job and I stayed." His voice had turned low and gruff as he spoke and he now dragged heavily on his cigarette, closing his eyes and exhaling a soft cloud of tobacco smoke from between his teeth. "I returned to England when I heard about the job at The Hour," he said slowly. "There had been plenty of offers that would have placed me higher up in the BBC but for so long I couldn't bear to come back."

Lix had been staring at him and now inadvertently caught his tentative glance in her direction. She looked away quickly.

"Why?"

It was the only word she could muster in response.

Randall nodded to himself. He understood. "Lix, I never forgot," he spoke quietly. "Not for a moment."

She was silent, struck dumb by the emotion crowding her throat.

"I could not stop thinking about her. Or—or about you. And the more I thought, the more I was convinced I had made a terrible, terrible mistake." He paused, lungs welling with his own horror. "The guilt is maddening."

"Yes."

The ball in her throat was swelling dangerously, stinging her eyes.

Randall choked slightly. "They have this horribly accurate saying in France: 'The man who strikes the match lives to see it burn.'" He ran the span of his hand across his brow, pinching the bridge of his nose in the middle. "I've burnt all my matches, if you like, and I finally realised some fires don't go out on their own. That's up to me, extinguishing the flames before I destroy all that I once had."

Lix bit her lip hard. "How do you know it's not too late?"

"I—" Randall's glance when it met hers desperate. Their shared gaze, however, was oddly reassuring. "—I don't," he said. "I suppose it is selfish what one has done in blindness and desperation; I only ask that it be forgiven."

Lix sighed and a single tear slipped silently down her cheek. "I longed for Sofia. I would see little girls swinging from their mothers' arms and I would think—you know." She coughed hurriedly. "But I can only blame myself for that."

Randall's hands returned to the knot of his tie. _It has to be said. _He cleared his throat and turned to her, resting his elbow on the back of the bench as to gaze at her downcast eyes.

"This can't be, Lix. I—we—we can't go on living in perpetual mourning for something we can't have."

She looked up at him and shook her head, lips trembling as she spoke. "Sofia."

Randall leant forward and gently wiped the tear from Lix's chin. "There's little consolation to be had for never knowing your own child," he spoke slowly, his voice gruff.

Lix's gaze was searching. In a low tone she murmured, "I was so in love with you Randall." It was not a confession, merely an offer to ease the pain.

Randall nodded. "Sofia was—we were in love, you're right. But love and children have no place in war and so they both left us as quickly as they came."

Lix sniffed and wiped her eyes in an attempt to recompose herself. "So why did you come back, Randall? When it's all so bloody hopeless, why couldn't you let us forget?"

"We can't forget. Quite simply, we can't. And when you live with that knowledge—"

"Yes, I know—"

"No, Lix. Please. When we were in Spain I fell in love with you—then war, I think, destroyed all that. But—but one doesn't simply forget love; it has a habit of haunting you. When the war ended I found I had lost you with no conceivable way to ever find you again. As time passed, however, I knew where I had to go and then grew the courage to get there. And now here we are, and—and all I really want is to know that you are happy."

Lix gave a shuddery sigh. "I never thought I would see you again. I was used to that idea; it was comforting." She smirked slightly. "But have I been happy?" She paused and the smirk turned to a weary grimace. "You know, I slept with Freddie once."

Randall coughed on his cigarette. "You—"

"Yes, on his birthday." Lix's smile was pained, her tone matter-of-fact.

"Freddie."

"Yes, Randall. Freddie."

Speechless, Randall ran a hand through his hair. "You know, I think I will have a chip." The corners of his mouth twitched slightly as he spoke.

She pushed the grease-soaked newspaper across the bench and turned towards him. "Oh, don't tell me you haven't ever felt lonely," she said, raising her eyebrows.

Randall took a chip and shrugged. "Yes, well—I never—"

"Don't," she interrupted in a tone of mock command. "Don't tell me I 'stooped that low'."

"I wasn't—"

"Freddie was great fun, I'll have you know."

"Right."

The ensuing awkward pause was broken by Lix who, upon spying Randall's expression, snorted loudly.

He glanced at her and quickly hid his dismay. "I was going to say—" he said pointedly over her sniggering, "—I was going to say I never allowed my loneliness to manifest in that way."

Lix, gazing at him as he chewed another chip, smiled. "'In that way'. Mr Euphemism," she teased, but her eyes grew serious. "No, you wouldn't, would you."

He glanced at her, raising his eyebrows.

Lix sighed and took a chip. "Well, I tell you it won't be happening again. He couldn't look me in the eye for a week. Felt mildly insulted."

"Insulted."

"Yes. I mean, what message was—"

Randall coughed. "Lix, I'd rather not hear about your—you and Freddie…"

She smirked. "Yes, well me and sex in the same thought does seem to make people squirm these days."

"That's not at all—"

She cut him off blankly, "Right. You don't need to—just help me finish the chips."

They did so in silence. The atmosphere between them, however, had grown suddenly and refreshingly companionable.

Randall crumpled the empty newspaper and tossed it into a bin. The two got up to leave then, abruptly becoming sensitive to the encroaching cold and bound suddenly by a common desire to retreat indoors. They trudged back through the common, their coats bundled tight and sides brushing gently for wont of warmth—or so Randall told himself. Their close proximity was unnecessary and eventually Lix in typical impatience elbowed his arm pointedly. He smiled amused at her wilful gaze and, heeding the hint, took her arm close in his. She shivered and they walked on.

"Under the mountains is silver and gold, but under the night sky, only hunger and cold," Randall mused quietly, gazing into the air above them. He had always been mesmerised by a full sky pregnant with stars and the way it would then kiss the rooftops with billions of tiny twinkling mouths. As a boy he had been reassured in the belief that this was the heavens bidding every earthly household goodnight. Now the stars only terrified him.

Lix followed his gaze and felt suddenly lost. She clung tighter to his arm for fear of becoming overwhelmed by her own petty insignificance and actually shrinking—it was a childish fear fed by a mind still teetering with worldy horrors.

"You know, your proverbs annoy me a lot, Randall," she said, still gazing upward.

He smirked.

"And _you_—you're just infuriating." She glanced at him and caught his gaze; she couldn't help the corners of her mouth twitch at his enamoured smile. Her stomach fluttered suddenly and she nudged his side playfully. "See?"

He laughed. "Oh God, Lix."_ Yes._ He could see. In fact, things had never been clearer to Randall in his life; he wanted nothing more than to woo her.

**A/N: Thanks muchly for hanging in there, dear readers, and thanks also to my dear reviewers. Only one chapter to go!  
UPDATE: I lie. I'm like an obsessive mother. This has been WAY more fun to write than I thought it would be. TWO more chapters to go.**** And after that I'm totally taking requests for supplementary one-off chapters based on this fic. [I just can't let gooooooo.]** Unfortunately I will have to wrap it up soon because I want it to feel like a complete fic [otherwise this could go on forever]—it was only meant to be an explanation of their past through flashbacks... Got carried away... So fear not! Two chapters to round off the story and then it's random-but-related one-offs.


	10. Chapter 9 Part 1

**DISCLAIMER: Lix and Randall and The Hour are not mine, no matter how much I would like them to be.**

**9 — Part One**

It was perhaps the activity lowest on anyone's agenda during the weeks following The Incident, but the memo they had all received that morning blared the words with such awful finality that all were resigned to it:

_You are cordially invited to the BBC Annual Chairman's Executive Dinner_

Lix twisted the paper between her fingers and regarded it with an air of mild revulsion; her eyes narrowed as if peering at the print would cause it to disappear. It didn't. Sighing, she screwed the paper into a ball and made to toss it in the bin.

"You wouldn't dare deprive us of your presence this evening, Lix?"

Randall appeared in the doorway and proceeded to pick up the ball of paper from the floor where she had missed, unfurling it and examining its content with a familiar sense of disinclination.

_An evening to mark the BBC's continued dedicated service to Britain through first-rate national broadcast._

"Oh Christ, it's going to be—"

"Yes—look what it says at the bottom."

Randall scanned his eyes along the edge of the page and duly grimaced. "Special guest: Sir Harold Gillett, Lord Mayor of London…" He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not particularly in the mood for this."

"No, neither am I."

Randall smirked and refolded the invitation neatly, handing it to Lix with an apologetic smile, "You'll need this to get in."

A non-committal sound issued from the back of Lix's throat and she rolled her eyes. "Fine." She motioned for him to sit. "Just promise not to wander off with the pollies leaving m—_us _to fend for ourselves."

Randall raised his eyebrows and moved to perch on the edge of Lix's desk next to her chair. "There was a time when you would've enjoyed the opportunity to fend for yourself."

"The journalists were attractive and my age, Randall," she said defensively. "And now we've got all the exec's to deal with; it's like a bloody show-and-tell but with cognac and Bugatti's."

Randall laughed and began to fiddle with a collection of pens lying haphazard next to him on the desk. "The wives are always a laugh…"

"Oh, don't get me started—"

"If it were between the cognac and the Bugatti's or their wives, who would you rather—?"

Lix threw her head in her hands in a show of derisive distress and let out an exasperated laugh. "I'd have to choose the one closest to the bar."

"The bar—an oasis amidst the desert of dry conversation." Randall chuckled and at once they were both laughing.

"The lone lily pad in a pond of political and social slime."

"A rocky outcrop above the moors of bleak narrow-mindedness and clouded ignorance."

Lix snorted and playfully swatted his arm. "That was a good one."

Randall caught her eye and exchanged a smile; for a moment they sat in silence, both quietly pleased for the other's presence.

The sound of muffled voices drifted in from the corridor and at once both were painfully reminded of the lives they must live. Clearing his throat, Randall patted the edge of the desk and moved slowly to his feet, nodding in Lix's direction. As he reached the door he paused and glanced back towards her, suddenly unsure.

"Do you want a lift tonight? I'll be around."

His tone was casual but could not disguise his anxiously flitting eyes.

"You're not going home beforehand?"

"I shouldn't think so."

Lix tapped the falling ash from the end of her cigarette into an ashtray and nodded to herself. "Well neither am I. So that would be—" _Nice? Lovely? _She cleared her throat."—Convenient." Glancing up at him, she smiled. "Thank you."

* * *

Not two hours later Lix found herself at Randall's door. He had not appeared since they had spoken in her office and she now sidled into the room without bothering to knock—they would be late if they didn't leave soon.

"Randall."

He was reclining on the chaise longue in the corner of the room, his hands clasped over his chest and a gentle hum emanating softly from his throat. He opened one eye as he heard her speak and smiled. Beckoning her across the room, he closed his eyes again and continued to hum quietly.

Lix moved to sit on the corner of his desk closest to the chaise and lit a cigarette. Exhaling slowly, she regarded him through the thin haze of tobacco smoke—seemingly tranquil yet, despite his apparent repose, so retaining that familiar enigmatic energy. His hum was low and oddly soft, the tune familiar in its casual, crooning lilt.

"Bing Crosby." Lix raised an eyebrow and allowed a breath of smoke to billow softly over her lips. "Have you been watching films, Randall?"

He chuckled, his eyes still closed, and began to quietly sing the words.

_You're all dressed up to go dreaming  
Now don't tell me I'm wrong  
And what a night to go dreaming  
Mind if I tag along_

Lix extended a leg to kick the side of his chaise, but a smile trembling at the corners of her lips betrayed her. "Daft man," she laughed quietly.

"Don't you want to hear the rest?"

"Absolutely not."

He grinned and straightened in his chair, adjusting his spectacles as he moved to stand beside her. "That's a shame," he spoke softly, "I was just getting to the good bit."

"Right."

"You know what comes next?" His tone was suddenly serious.

"Yes, Randall—every bloody soldier with a heartache would practically bellow it from the rooftops—"

He nodded. "Good."

Suddenly aware of their proximity, Randall made to move away politely but the touch of Lix's fingers at his wrist commanded him to stop. She moved her hand to cup his jaw and their eyes suddenly locked.

"It's about the moonlight," she murmured, her thumb gently tracing the contours of his cheek. _Moonlight becomes you, it goes with your hair._ She raised and eyebrow and laughed softly. "Silly."

Randall felt himself suddenly tensely aware of his senses and the sound of his breathing became almost deafening in his ears. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated as the heat of her shuddered breath caressed and warmed the skin of his neck.

Lix cleared her throat and blinked hurriedly, breaking their heated gaze. "And you absolutely must shave before we leave, Randall, or no one will believe you drive a Bentley," she spoke quickly, stroking the roughness of his jaw before reaching again for her cigarette. She tapped the ash from its tip and smiled sadly into the ashtray, avoiding his gaze.

Nodding absentmindedly, Randall ran his palm along his jawbone; the skin where her hand had touched felt strangely warm. He coughed. "Ah—yes. Won't be a moment." He moved quickly then, reaching into a drawer where he had stashed a razor and retreating swiftly to the men's in the outer corridor.

Lix sighed heavily and sank into the chair behind Randall's desk. Drawing deeply on her cigarette, she leant her head back against the chair and squeezed her eyes shut. She felt her blood rush into her ears and sat still for a moment, wincing as the deep boom of her heartbeat reverberated like a struck bell about her quivering skull.

"Christ."

She pressed her fingers to her temples and proceeded to massage them slowly.

_What in God's name are you doing?_

She winced again. The sardonic internal dialogue was unwelcome at the best of times; its tone of disparagement had a habit of ripping at the fringes of her mind, sniping at any passing thought or decision like a rabid dog tethered by the throat to a stone.

_What are you doing? Do you want him?_

"Christ," Lix muttered again.

_Or do you just want to sleep with him? Get it over with?_

She squirmed in her chair, flinching away at each cruel bite as if it had physically stung her.

_But they feel the same to you now, don't they. Having a man in any sense of the word is an act reduced to thrashing about on the floor of your office for about twenty minutes—_

"Oh God…"

_—and waking in the early hours of the morning feeling sweaty, decrepit and worthless. You've tried to love them—some, at least—but falling in love now is like literally falling on a bed of sharp rocks; you stagger away from men as if they were the ones to bruise and batter you. But it's wasn't them. That bloody war and the child and the fucking great mess afterwards—you can't for the life of you let the whole bloody thing go. You let it prey on your mind like a bleeding vulture hovering over a wounded buck, waiting for it to die so the beast can plunge for a meal. And Randall—Randall _is_ the past. The past bloody personified. So here he is—this man whose mere existence has destroyed the possibility of love for you—and you think you want him? Want him back?_

Lix groaned and swept her fingers beneath her eyes. Blinking, she surveyed his desk—the neatly piled books under a tray of colour-coded files; the pens laid out like tiny soldiers in salute; papers folded into perfect squares; his mechanically accurate cursive swept across pages and pages of a ratings' report that lay open perpendicular with the edge of the desk. In a bizarre paradox, this faultless military order emanated a kind of frantic chaos as if it's rigorous perfection were merely means to further expose the panicked anxiety of which it so sought to hide.

Despite herself, Lix smiled.

"It's all here," she mused quietly, cautiously nudging a pile of books with the tips of her fingers. "So strange…"

So strange, indeed, that she should find solace in the one man whose appearance in her life had become the source of all her later grief. Or rather, it wasn't strange at all—the order, the obsessive precision, all a practical manifestation of a haunting sentiment she knew only too well—he was the one man who knew and shared her every worldly sorrow.

Lix sniffed and stubbed out the remains of her cigarette into the ashtray on his desk. She felt, in a fleeting moment of poeticism, a sense of calm in the finality of extinguishing the cigarette, as if in doing so she too pressed into the pile of ash all further doubt that her love for Randall Brown was anything but spectacularly good.

* * *

Randall gazed into the mirror and examined the creases about his eyes with an air of weary acceptance. He was aware that he had become the definition of gaunt and hollow in recent years—his skin had become brittle as paper and sunk into the jowls of his cheeks; the colour in his eyes had drained to a blank grey, swallowed by dark smudges betraying his bitter and listless torpor. _These are the less admirable tokens of war._

Swallowing, Randall brought the razor to his cheek and swiftly grazed it over his skin, leaving a smooth-skinned stripe in the shaving cream. He moved to repeat the stroke but a movement out the corner of his eye caused him to hesitate.

"This is the men's," he spoke slowly, a smile hinting at his lips.

Lix shrugged and slipped inside the doorway so that she stood beside him at the mirror.

"I've seen and smelt much worse."

She shot him a teasing smile and produced a lipstick from her handbag, proceeding to apply it using his mirror.

He gazed at her momentarily, struck by both her boldness and beauty. She always seemed to spring from nowhere and instantly brighten the mood of the room—that was how she made him feel. He shook his head, smiling softly, and returned his attention to the mirror and the blade to his cheek.

Lix focused her eyes on the line of her lip and attempted resolutely to avert her gaze from Randall's vest-clad chest and bare arms—naturally, he had removed his shirt to shave. It was foolish, really, for a grown man's arms to induce such a reaction in her and at once she was reminded of her teenage self, embarrassed at the sight of a young man in his shirt drenched through from the rain. The thought made her smirk.

"What?" Randall noted the shadow of amusement tweaking the corners of her eyes as she leaned over the washbasin.

"Oh." She met his eyes in the mirror. "Nothing." Randall's eyebrows twitched and she broke into a laugh. "Seriously, Randall."

He sighed and smiled teasingly at her. "You're distracting me, Lix."

"Am I? Why's that?" She bit her lip, equally as teasing in return.

"Oh, nothing."

Lix snorted and shook her head. "Unbearable man."

Randall raised his eyebrows and continued to shave, scraping the razor cautiously over his jawline and down his neck. The movement caused Lix to hold her breath, her gaze suddenly enraptured by the throb of his jugular beneath the skin of his throat and the slow blade grazing over the soft pulse. All men become vulnerable, she thought, with a thick blade pressed to their necks straining towards a mirror. Inadvertently, she reached out a hand to the nape of his neck and ran her thumb along his smoothed jawline. The sensation of his skin against hers made her shiver.

"I'm not done yet," Randall said quietly. He turned his head slightly towards her and forced her to meet his gaze, his eyes questioning.

Lix nodded absently and gently removed the razor from is grasp. "I'll do the rest."

It was not a request. This understood, Randall swallowed and nodded slowly. She directed him to a chair and proceeded to scrape the rest of the shaving cream from his lower cheeks and neck, gently titling his head towards the light as she so required and allowing her fingers to barely whisper against his skin. Her expression as she did this was one of dedicated concentration—she bit her lip and her brow furrowed slightly with every stroke of the blade. Randall gazed into her eyes and was met out of nowhere with the sudden realisation that this was intended as a message: she was in every way dedicating herself to him.

Lix finished the final stroke of the blade and silently placed it beside the basin. Wordlessly, she then took his face in her hands and stroked her thumbs across his cheeks, a final caress.

"You're presentable now," she smiled quietly.

Randall opened his mouth to speak but she had dropped her hands from his cheeks, taken a step back. He nodded and stood slowly, his mind suddenly a daze. Without speaking he reached for his shirt and began to button it, and all the while she watched him; his hands shook, fumbling with the cufflinks and the buttons fastening at his throat became suffocating. She noticed—reached for his tie and knotted it around his neck with practiced deftness. They stood so close then and their bodies ached, but the mind slipped into the ease of resistance; Lix tightened the Windsor knot against his collar and for once her heady breath at his neck could not immobilise him to respond. Randall closed his eyes, felt her presence heating his entire flesh, and gently clasped his fingers about her wrists still smoothing his collar. Her hands were instantly limp in his, the shock of the touch mutually electrifying. Opening his eyes he was met with her heated gaze and expression oddly close to fright. He smiled, clutched her hands to his chest and leant forward so his lips met her cheek in the smallest and softest of kisses.

"Thank you," he whispered.

She nodded.

He squeezed her hands gently. "But now we really must go."

Lix felt her heart wrench pathetically as their hands fell apart. But he had the message, she knew that at least. He understood. She could only smile and let him lead her to his car, safe in the knowledge that he knew their past was forgiven.

**To be continued…**

**A/N: Not very much left of this fic but I ask that you all read the updated author's note from the preceding chapter for information regarding its future. And once again THANK YOU to every reader, reviewer and all the lovely people who are saying nice things about this—if it weren't for you this fic would have ended at chapter two. **


	11. Chapter 9 Part 2

**A/N: A bucketful of soz for the wait, my chums.  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.**

**9 — Part Two**

The Chairman's Executive Dinner was an event held annually for all main factions of the BBC at their headquarters—Broadcasting House on Langham Place, London—at the onset of every summer since 1927. Its purpose, although unspoken, was to impress upon the Corporation's vast workforce that the BBC's governance was comprised of a secure body of wealthy and socially-minded civil-servants whose best interests were healthily epitomised in their motto—"inform, educate and entertain"—and were not at all influenced by the immense political advantage the position afforded.

Randall tapped a nail against the side of his glass of water with a sense of rising agitation. The House's largest studio had been transformed into a dance hall decked with dozens of small tables and a frightening show of beribboned fairy lights surrounding a small number of slowly revolving couples on the central dance floor. In a room filled with what could only be described as a bunch of toffs and those unfortunate enough to be that of the aspiring kind, he felt he should have been better prepared for the inevitable.

"…and of course Arthur would never allow me to drive it, would you dearest?"

Randall muffled a groan into a mouthful of roast pork.

"See, he says he wouldn't. And I was so very put out, wasn't I darling? But as my mother used to say to me, 'Helen, a man must have his car.' Isn't that right, Mr Brown?"

Randall chewed slowly and attempted to cautiously slip his arm away from Helen Fford's slithering manicured grasp.

"Mr Brown doesn't want to hear about your mother, Helen." Sir Arthur Fford leant back languidly in his chair and twiddled a fat cigar between his equally plump fingers, his smug lips forming a twitch in the heavy flesh of his cheek. This was a man who proudly considered his immense stature a true affordance to his authority as Chairman of the BBC Board of Governors; to Randall, however, the effect of the incessant transferring of food from fork to already overstuffed, slavering mouth was mildly repugnant. He winced and averted his eyes as the Chairman turned to him, spluttering wetly as he spoke. "Are you also an automobile man, Mr Brown?"

Randall stared into his helping of peas and raised an eyebrow nonchalantly. "I drive a car, if that's what you mean."

Sir Arthur chuckled, his vast chest heaving with the effort. "Not a fan of the old tube, then?"

Randall was spared the invitation to speak by Helen who, taking the opportunity to give a show of splendid and utterly favourable accordance, seized his forearm and proceeded to shake it vehemently as she spoke. "Oh I am loathe for travelling publically, aren't you? The inconvenience of it all—one can find oneself waiting so terribly long—and the smell, I recall, is just awful…"

"Shut up, Helen." Sir Arthur puffed languorously on his cigar and regarded his wife coolly from beneath the lazily drooping lids of his eyes. Helen's mouth shut with a squeak.

Randall coughed and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His eyes once again fell to his plate of food; the pork was delicious but he was in no mood at all to eat it.

"Mr Brown!" Randall started at the sound of a second voice booming in his left ear. _Is there no escape? _He turned warily and was greeted enthusiastically by the broad and sweaty Director of the BBC Radio Service, Trevor Fox. _Christ, they're coming from every bloody direction_. Mr Fox shook Randall's hand emphatically and slumped into the empty seat next to him at the table.

"Bloody good do this is, don't you think Mr Brown? Jolly well done and all that." Mr Fox mopped his brow and reached for a nearby tumbler of whiskey, downing it in one loud gulp. Slamming the empty glass on the table, he turned to Randall and grinned. "Bloody nice girls, too," he slavered wickedly under his breath, gesturing with an unsubtle flick of his eyes at Sir Arthur Fford's wife. "Bit of a bloody shame they're all married to our colleagues." He paused, smiling crookedly, to assess Randall's expression before throwing his head back and barking out a raucous laugh. "Speak, Mr Brown!" he roared loudly, gleefully nudging Randall's arm with the fresh glass of whiskey spilling from his grasp. "Tell me you don't think they're not _glorious_."

Randall reached for his glass of water and surveyed his companion over the rim as he took a sip. His eyes, he noticed, were wide and raving; Randall narrowed his in return. "Make that your last, will you Mr Fox," he said coolly, arching his eyebrows as the man reached for another drink.

"You'd appreciate some liquor in you, Mr Brown," Mr Fox crowed, drooling slightly as he tipped back the glass. "Does wonders for the spirit." He choked then, guffawing madly, "The spirit!" He raised his empty glass to Randall and let out a howl of laughter. "That's a pun—brilliant!"

Clearing his throat, Randall stood and quietly excused himself. "The vine brings forth three grapes," he muttered under his breath: "The first of pleasure, the second of drunkenness and the third of sorrow." Without a backwards glance he sighed and headed swiftly for the bar.

* * *

"Hector's terribly excited," Marnie smiled quietly as her husband joined the team from The Hour at their table near the corner of the room. "Aren't you dear?"

Hector kissed the top of her head and moved to sit close beside her. "Very," he spoke softly, his voice gruff in his throat.

Marnie reached to grasp his hands and ran her fingers gently over his knuckles, gazing intently into his eyes. Her expression betrayed only a hint of worry.

Breaking into a grin, Hector proudly addressed the table: "It's perfect news. We've always longed for a little baby—" he squeezed his wife's hands and gave her a reassuring smile, "—and I can think of nothing more marvellous than starting a family with my lovely Marnie." They exchanged a tender kiss and Sissy cooed approvingly.

"Oh, this is so exciting!" she squealed. "Isn't it Sey? First baby of The Hour!" She giggled and raised a glass. "To baby Madden, and all the more to come!"

"Baby Madden!" they chorused cheerily.

Lix raised her glass and nodded; a gulp of tobacco smoke had caught in her throat, however, and she found herself suddenly incapable of speaking. She coughed loudly and took another long drag on her cigarette.

"Can't say I'm jealous," Bel whispered darkly under her breath.

Surprised, Lix shot her a questioning glance.

Bel noticed Lix staring at her questioningly and became suddenly and mistakenly apologetic. "Oh God, Lix, sorry," she spluttered. "This is probably awful for you—"

"What? No, darling, I—"

Bel shushed her with the pathetic flap of her hands. "No, no, I completely understand. If I'd lost a child—I mean, it's like when people talk about Freddie—"

Lix clenched her fists in her lap and closed her eyes to seek a moment of respite. When none came, she turned to Isaac seated at her right and greeted him with a wide, forced grin.

"Isaac, darling. Are we hoping to find fatherhood in the future?"

Isaac stared glumly into his food and clinked his fork half-heartedly against the rim of the plate. "I've always been a bit of a lone soldier, Miss Storm," he said forlornly. "At least I've got my plays; with writing you can invent your life companions…"

Lix opened her mouth to form a suitably patronising response but was interrupted by Sissy, whose excitement at the occasion and the conversation topic left her slightly breathless. "Oh!" she cried gleefully, "Me and Sey are just dying for a family! I mean, now that we're married and everything's official and all—we just need to save up, get a nicer apartment—we were thinking Clapham, weren't we—yes, well there's lots to consider before we start—"

Isaac's shoulders slumped further over his plate and Lix noticed him squeeze his eyes shut for a brief moment. _Oh. _Hit with a dawning realisation, she placed a hand on his arm and squeezed gently.

"Sweetheart, we're _constantly_ falling in love with the wrong people," she smiled, coolly breathing a plume of tobacco smoke over her lips. "If she's—"

"She's not the wrong person."

"Well yes, dear, if she's the _right_ person then she'll come back." Lix surveyed the young man over the frame of her glasses and, noting his small, dejected brow wrinkle in despair, pressed her lips together in a suitable show of empathy.

Isaac sighed, avoiding Lix's gaze. "Maybe _I'm_ the wrong person."

Lix raised her eyebrows and proceeded to stub out her cigarette. "Darling, I'll have you know one thing," she laughed, "You can't jolly well live out your life thinking _you're_ the wrong person."

Isaac glanced at her, his expression shadowed in doubt.

"It'd be terribly boring," Lix grinned. "Can you imagine? No—by all means question that you're always _right_, but don't waste your time moping over your not being so."

"I think I love her."

Lix rolled her eyes. "Good God, just enjoy yourself and blinking _love_ will find her way to _you_." She clapped her hands together and gestured for him to stand. "Come, Mr Wengrow," she said resolutely. "You and I are going to dance."

* * *

"Ah—just a whiskey, two fingers, thanks."

Randall nodded at the barman and flicked a tip into the jar. His expression was dour as he turned to survey the room, his eyes searching anxiously to meet hers.

He wasn't surprised, of course, to find her dancing. There had been times when it seemed she had wanted nothing more than to lose herself amidst the warm crush of bodies and the music so playful and suggestive of other, better places. She had demanded it of him. That time in the nightclubs of downtown Madrid when she had gazed at him solemnly and said _I haven't had fun in so long_—it was that release, the sense of freedom and of being so very close to someone else which she had sought in the long hot days of war.

"Here you are, sir."

"Thank you." Randall took the whiskey and stared into the glass momentarily, wondering why on earth he'd bought it in the first place—he was by no means about to drink it. Swishing the amber liquid into a tiny whirlpool at the bottom of the glass, he smiled. _Of course_.

"Dear me, Mr Brown, what is this?"

Randall lifted his head and was met with Lix's twisted smile as she sidled next to him. She leant into his side and tapped his glass with the nail of her finger now cradling a cigarette, her eyebrows raised, "Don't tell me it's for you."

Randall smirked, "I thought you might be needing it."

"Ah, indeed," she took the glass and proceeded to swish its contents absentmindedly as he had done. Smiling, she leant against the bar and gazed out at the smoke-hazed room. "You know, Randall," she spoke slowly, "This was us once."

"What was?"

"Oh, you know," she hesitated, biting her lip in absent thought. "The slow jazz. All that talking and raising glasses." She laughed. "Thinking we were glamourous."

"I _never_ thought I was glamourous."

She swatted his arm. "Seriously, Randall," she chided. He granted her a glance and at once she seized his gaze, "We've changed so much."

He smiled distantly. "I don't think so."

"Really."

"Yes, really. While one can't deny that age and experience proffers change—"

"Randall, I plucked a hair from my chin this morning. My _chin._ It was traumatising."

He laughed. "You haven't let me finish."

"Old habits die hard."

"Indeed." He smirked and reached for a cigarette from the inside pocket of his blazer. Lighting it, he continued: "I wouldn't go so far to say we've changed _so _much. You drink more, I drink less; my hair is greying, yours is—"

"Growing on my chin."

"Well…" He flashed her a grin. "I mean—looking at you—you may do or see things differently these days but you are still doing and seeing the _same_ things."

Lix raised her eyebrows. "I don't follow at all."

Randall indicated pointedly with a nod of his head in the direction of the dance floor.

Sighing wearily, Lix stubbed out her cigarette and turned to face him, her expression suddenly sombre. Without thinking, her hands slid to the lapels of his jacket and she began to smooth them neatly, plucking a stray hair from his collar and straightening his tie. "Yes, Randall," she said slowly, avoiding his gaze, "I still very much want to dance with you." The corners of her mouth twitched.

Her hands fell but Randall caught them swiftly in his grasp. He rubbed her knuckles gently with his thumb and smiled quietly. "Don't look so forlorn," he said softly, "dancing with your employer is considered only mildly scandalous these days."

Lix looked at him sharply, "That is _not_—"

He laughed. "I know. Come."

Their hands still entwined, Randall led her to the centre of the room and, amidst the familiar crush of slowly revolving couples and the sensual lilt of the jazz sax, gathered her in his arms.

At once, their bodies melted together—she folded against his shoulder, his hand pressed protectively into the small of her back—and they swayed gently to the slow pulse of the music as it drifted through the tobacco-hazed room. The dimmed lights gave only a soft glow and those around them became partially obscured in the romantic mystique of shadow; the rhythm of the song beat slowly with each longing heart, quaking and groaning in that way only smooth jazz can so imitate the yearnings of love. They felt blissfully alone.

Lix buried her head into the crook of Randall's neck, seeking the comforting warmth of his flesh against hers—he responded, crushing her tight against him. But for their clothes, they stood utterly entwined as one.

Randall released a shuddering breath into her hair and closed his eyes, nudging his chin against the top of her head. His mind was drawn instantly into the void that was their shared memories and for a moment its expanse became overwhelming. There they were, hopelessly young—he had scolded her for leaving the cap off the lens and she had laughed, telling him he caressed cameras better than he did women—and later, much later, the blackness and indomitable sense of loss where their lives had split apart. There were those words, too—almost eulogistic, the kind often acknowledged much too late when the weeping reader tastes them for the first and last time at the graveside: she was my friend, my lover, my comforter and my confidant. _She was; what is she now?_

The evening wound on, the music slowed and further couples gravitated towards the dance floor. As an unusually large man pivoted past with the genuine and surprising grace of a piqué-ing ballerina, Lix leant into Randall's ear to speak: "Do you remember what we used to do? When we were dancing?"

Despite her teasing ambiguity, Lix had hardly need elaborate for Randall grinned at once and chuckled in her ear. "What of those two then—the ones by that table?" He indicated with his head.

"Ah yes—" Lix narrowed her eyes gleefully and smirked as the dancing couple tripped awkwardly over each other's feet. "He's read farther into the part of the invitation that extends the offer to family than he ought. Looks like he's brought his sister."

"Sister? Do you think? Seems more like a surreptitious first date. Eager to impress with an invite to a high profile work do or some such."

Lix laughed, "Ok, ok, maybe. What about…" She scanned the room momentarily, "What about them. Her with the funny hat."

Randall snorted. "Good God, I know those two."

"Really? They look…"

"Awful?"

"Well, I wasn't going to say…"

"It's Tobias Fotheringhay and his wife, ah—Henrietta, I think."

"Wife. Boring. Let's find another one."

This continued for a long while; the sly assessment of every other dancing couple was a game conveniently distracting from the fact that their bodies had together grown hot from ardent proximity. Eventually, however, the two had exhausted their objects of humourous judgment and at once they became horribly aware that they were indeed not the only two occupants of the room.

"I think it's our turn to be assessed," Lix said slowly, noting the watching eyes as they flicked awkwardly away upon meeting hers. "Only a little disconcerting…"

"What conclusion do you think they've reached?"

Lix sighed and, despite every fibre of her being shrieking in opposition, drew her body slightly away from his. She met his eyes, her expression turned grave. "Probably a clearer one than you and I have," she said wearily. Her heart beat heavily in her chest as she spoke and she felt suddenly and unbearably exposed.

Randall nodded and ceased his wistful swaying. Gathering her hands in his, he indicated that they should head outside.

"Randall, wha—?"

"You're right. Perhaps we should come to our own conclusion before we become the subject for prying eyes."

"A bit late for that—"

"And I'm dying for some fresh air. Please, Lix."

She nodded and they headed for the door.

* * *

The balcony overlooked a bustling Langham Place still whizzing with taxicabs and automobiles despite the darkness of the hour. A light breeze caressed the night air and offered a cool respite from the heat and heady smoke of indoors.

They stood together, their shoulders grazing as they leant against they railing and gazed absentmindedly at the surrounding night. Wary of Randall's previous words, Lix hastily lit a cigarette. Glancing across at him, she noticed his hair had fallen into a state of slight disarray.

"You know, Randall, I do believe you've become dishevelled."

He raised an eyebrow. "Physically or mentally."

Laughing, Lix made to brush a stray hair from his forehead. His head had once been an unruly mop of soft waves yet he had since learnt to tame them, but for those stubborn tendrils that so fell away into his eyes with heat or passion or oversleeping. It frustrated him no end; she had always found it rather endearing.

"Physically, yes," she smiled. "Mentally… I could never be sure…" Here she hesitated, suddenly uncertain of where her lips would take them. She shuddered a breath, "You're mind has always been a bloody enigma."

Randall smiled, gazing out into the street below. "Good."

For a moment they were silent again, both contemplating thoughts they usually sought to ignore. Lix inhaled deeply on her cigarette and winced as the hot tobacco stung her palate, icy from the cool night air. The smoke curled its warmth about her lungs and she shivered.

"Too cold?"

Lix caught Randall's eye and gave him a look of reproach. "Absolutely not."

This was familiar to him, of course—she had always been impossibly stubborn and her insistence on independence had at times bordered on infuriating. Unfortunately, in an odd way he was the same.

"Is that why we never got married?" he murmured quietly to himself.

"What?"

Randall shook his head and laughed. "Sorry," he said, turning to gaze at her, "I was thinking aloud."

"Jesus, what were you thinking about."

There she was rolling her eyes again, exhaling tobacco smoke in such a manner of seductiveness—it spilling in soft waves over her lips, suggestive of a hot and fiery world behind them—and her brow ever slinging the arrow of taunting in a single cool twitch.

"Just that we built our barricades long ago, didn't we."

Her laugh was shrill. "Enough bloody riddles, Randall, I—"

"Yes, that's what I thought too," he spoke quietly, his eyes now fixed on an iron rut in the black wrought railing. "Enough." He cleared his throat and lifted his gaze to examine the twinkling map of stars. "There was a time when we were afraid. Like animals when they're scared. They curl up into little balls; some snap and snarl, others whimper and shy away. That—that's what we were."

Lix had dropped her eyes when he turned to face her, her mind suddenly numb. He continued, his voice stead now, unwavering: "And now like animals we've learnt to expect pain and hurt from one another. But those times have passed, Lix. They're gone forever." He cleared his throat. "And I absolutely will not allow you to disappear with them."

The tobacco was no longer comforting; the rush of nicotine beating heavily in her veins made her head begin to spin. Lix grasped the balcony rail with tense white knuckles and gave a shuddering sigh. "I was terrified once," she said slowly, turning finally to meet his gaze. "I'm not scared at all now. In fact, quite the opposite."

Randall nodded and the corners of his mouth began to twitch. Lix clenched her jaw in mock frustration, "_What?_ Stop it—stop being so ludicrously enigmatic. You do it on purpose, I know."

"I was just thinking…" he said wryly.

"What."

"Oh, it's embarrassing, really."

Lix returned his smirk with a glare. "Ludicrously. Enigmatic."

She was about to flounce spectacularly and turn away, but Randall laughed. "I nearly bought you flowers, that's all."

She paused. "Flowers."

"Yes."

She cleared her throat. "How very twee."

Randall nodded to himself, his hands reaching compulsively to straighten the knot of his tie. "Yes, I thought that too."

Lix stubbed out her cigarette against the wrought-iron balustrade, suddenly thoughtful. She leant her elbow against the railing, turning to examine his profile as he gazed out into the night, and her face relaxed into a true smile.

She had always been struck by his figure, particularly upon entering a room. His fingers would twirl and his brow would twitch and any emotion beyond that was barely readable; he could slink in and out of corners, spring from nowhere and yet his presence was forever discernable in an instant. He commanded people that way, never ceasing to surprise but ever remaining a true force of undoubted trust and loyalty. And now his soft eyes, hard-edged nose, his lips thin and wry and his jaw heavy, he still stuck after years of war and loss an equally imposing figure. Perhaps it was only her, then, who could sense from time to time the bitterness, the regret shrouding the lids of his eyes, lining his mouth with ribboning creases and draining his blood from the areas of one's face usually plump and rosy with life's sweet offerings of food, lovers and good wine. To her, his vulnerability was as obvious as London's pale grey sky or splatterings of ink on crisp paper—and in an odd way it was gratifying to realise that her own loss was felt utterly in tandem with his, and that all their life's joys had too been shared.

Her fingers reached out to graze his collar—her skin brushed his neck and both felt the shock in an instant. He turned to face her and she caught his jaw in her hand, marvelling suddenly at why she had never spent more time exploring the contours of his face, the lines in his skin.

Randall opened his mouth to speak but she shook her head. Her thumb instead ran lightly across his lips and he closed them obediently.

Lix arched an eyebrow. Her hand remained pressed longingly to his jaw but her caresses abruptly ceased; his eyes widened in protest. She sighed and dropped her hand, instead bending her head to remove her glasses. She slid the frames off her nose slowly, her mind clouded in thought, and when her eyes returned again to meet his they were misted with a surprising yet familiar expression.

Lix cleared her throat. "Randall, if you don't kiss me soon I may have to do something slightly indecorous."

She had spoken so quickly and at a tone so low it was barely audible, yet Randall had caught the words as if they had been chimed from a bell tower across an empty square. She bit her lip and suddenly his mind was thrown backwards to a time when they had run through the rain and shared chaste kisses in the doorway of an empty bookshop—she was gazing at him with a look that could only be described as longing.

Randall's mouth twitched at this thought. His hands moved to cradle the small of her back and the nape of her neck and he brought his lips within inches of hers. Her breath was hot and trembling, her eyes widened; he grinned.

"If you insist, my dear."

Lix exhaled heavily and her lips parted slightly as their mouths finally met. Softly at first, but Randall's fingers had weaved their way into her hair and their lips crushed hard together in the involuntary grip of ardent desire. Their tongues explored gently, tasting the corners of the mouth, the inner rim of the lip—there was comfort in the fact that every movement was familiar, every inch of skin more alive from the passion of past touch. Tentatively, Lix's lips trembled open against the rim of his lip and she brought her teeth thin against his skin, pinching the soft flesh so it bloomed red where the blood rose beneath. Randall groaned and pressed his palm hard against the small of her back, thrusting their bodies tight together. Her eyes flung open then and she gasped.

"Sorry," he breathed. "You're a bit irresistible."

Lix shook her head slightly and shuddered. "Don't b—be," she whispered throatily.

Randall nodded and cupped her face in his hands, proceeding to gently sweep a wisp of hair from her lip and tuck it behind her ear. His eyes locked with hers, his blood pounding through his flesh as he beheld her.

"Love and light cannot be hid; where lovers lie the night be rid," he murmured softly in her ear.

Lix bit her lip. "And what's that one?"

"I just made it up."

She arched an eyebrow and he laughed, leaning forward to press his lips to her cheek. "Let's go inside," he said quietly.

"I'd rather not."

"They'll be missing us."

"Like I said—"

"And you're freezing."

She stroked his neck and smiled. "If I recall correctly, we used to sleep together naked in the middle of the Spanish winter. This is only English spring, Randall; I'm sure it's within your manly capacity to keep me warm."

Randall found his throat suddenly restricted by a swelling ball of warmth. "But we're not naked," he choked.

The arch of Lix's eyebrow was jauntier this time. She fiddled with his collar and grinned. "What is it you always say about things changing?"

"Ah—yes—"

"And there's no way that bigoted bunch of farting toffs will be missing us in there, Randall. That lot, they're like vulgar balls of—"

But her tirade ceased. Randall had stopped her mouth with a kiss.

**A/N: This time there is genuinely one chapter to go. Thanks to everyone for sticking with it, especially reviewers and kind tumblrites—you make staying up til 1am to finish fic mildly acceptable.**


	12. Chapter 10: Epilogue

**A/N: Back home on mid-sem break and realised I still hadn't uploaded this…oops. Sorry. Not even sure this fandom still exists…does it? Hello? Anyway this really is the end. I hope you find it fitting, dear reader. I really didn't believe they'd have miraculously gotten over their past and moved on with a big white wedding, etc. I wanted to show them as troubled souls made less troubled for their renewed love. I also find my inability to write an angst-less chapter influenced significantly by a CERTAIN SHOW not being RECOMISSIONED. Dammit. Enjoy.  
DISCLAIMER: Still not mine.**

10

Epilogue: Two months later…

Freddie was officially discharged from hospital in August and visited Lime Grove for the first time since the El Paradis exposé in the later weeks of that same month. Bel had wheeled him into the main office beaming stupidly and was greeted by a rush of excited squeals, conjuring an odd parallel with another of Freddie's dramatic arrivals earlier that year. But instead of standing coolly bearded in the doorway he was slumped in a wheelchair and the truth of their surprise lay in that he was alive at all to greet them.

"Sit, adoring subjects!" Freddie flung his arms wide and grinned at the flock forming around his chair. "But you, Sissy, _you_ may kiss my hand."

"Oh, Mr Lyon!" Sissy shrieked with laughter and swatted his hand away, instead flinging her arms awkwardly around his shoulders. "We've missed you so much!"

"I'm sure you haven't."

Bel laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, "Freddie, don't be silly." She looked around for reassurance.

"Oh yes, it's been _terrible,_" Lix nodded emphatically. "Mr Brown has a framed photograph of you on his desk, which he talks to when he thinks no one's looking and apparently Isaac mumbles your name repeatedly in his sleep."

Randall snorted. "Very funny."

"_And_—" Lix continued, "of course it's lovely to have you back because the office's average level of good looks is so horribly low without you—" She leant in to cradle his face in her hands, "—which is so _very_ distressing for everyone." She patted his cheek and pecked him lightly on the nose. "It's been disastrous, the amount of moping—"

"Stop it, Lix."

"No, no," Freddie giggled, "I want to hear about the moping. Was that you, Isaac—?"

But Hector had shouldered his way to Freddie's side and proceeded to shake the man's hand vehemently. "Great to see you Freddie," he said gruffly. "This place has been a bloody mess without you."

"Ha! You see!" Lix smirked.

Hector cracked a smile, clapping Freddie on the back. "We've had a frightful influx of complaints from old men claiming their wives have destroyed their television sets in frustration at seeing my ugly face there instead of yours."

Freddie laughed vociferously, shaking his head. "Is that the headline you've been working on? It's rubbish."

"I was hoping for more along the lines of 'Quite Good Reporter Returns To Work'." They all turned at the sound of Randall's voice behind them and parted to allow the Head of News to shake his employee's hand. "There's no rush, of course, Mr Lyon," he spoke seriously. "A desk and a high salary await you whenever you're ready."

Lix glanced around in mock alarm. "High salary? Where—?"

Freddie laughed but his expression was of relief. "Thank you, Mr Brown. Means a lot."

Randall nodded, clearing his throat. "I think this calls for an early lunch…"

The office burst into a flurry of approving murmurs.

"Um, Mr Lyon?" Isaac called through the group still surrounding Freddie. "Mr Lyon, I just want you to know that I _don't _say your name in my sleep. That is, I'm fairly certain I…"

Isaac trailed off at the sudden hysterical laughter that broke out in peals around the office.

"WHISKEY!" Hector boomed over the chorus of spirited giggles and chatter—a small cheer resounded and at once the place was alive again with a fervour not experienced since Freddie had last sat amongst them. All were eager to raise a glass and drink to it.

Randall moved quietly to Lix's side. She was leant against a filing cabinet, now observing the clamour of the room with an air of weariness.

"You don't look happy. Why aren't you smiling?"

She gave a half-hearted laugh. "Should I be smiling?"

"Absolutely."

"You're not, either."

Randall said nothing, only furrowed his brow, holding her gaze intently.

Lix waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, it's nothing."

"Said the Greeks to the Trojans."

"Right." She held his grave eyes for a moment and at once broke into giggles.

"What?"

She shook her head.

"_What?_ Woman, stop being so vague and unreadable."

"Vague and unreadable?" She snorted. "I've been called many things—"

But the corners of his mouth were twitching and he reached gently for her hand, stopping her speech with the mere brush of his fingers. "Tell me what you were thinking," he said slowly, allowing his thumb to trace the back of her hand.

"You'll laugh."

"I won't."

"Well, you'll think I'm silly."

"Bit too late to be worrying about that, I think."

She let go of his hand and swatted his arm in mock offence. "I was just feeling a bit old, that's all. Well—quite old, really." She glanced at him tentatively; his face was turned grave and distant. "It's just these moments occasionally when I wonder what on earth I'm doing anymore. Freddie's back and I should be getting quickly drunk with joy… I—But I just feel tired. And sorry, because Freddie isn't really back and where I used to dismiss thoughts like that it's now a truth I feel I can't ignore. And _that _makes me feel _old_…"

Randall nodded slowly. "Yes," he murmured. "You are indeed silly."

Lix shot him a reproachful look. "Well, thanks."

He smiled absently and stole back her hand. "You've grown wise, Lix, that's all."

"Wise. Like a wizard with a long white beard, or an oak tree, or an _old_ _woman_." Her tone was sarcastic.

He was grinning then, watching the office buzz about Freddie like chirruping sparrows flitting above a nest egg. "Wisdom and age are not interdependent, you know. Look at Mr Madden—" Hector was guffawing loudly and attempting to gesticulate with full vigour whilst downing a drink— "If the words were interchangeable he wouldn't be much older than, say, Isaac and Sissy."

Lix's smile failed to reach her eyes then. She sniffed, clearing her throat tentatively. "What does the future hold for us, Randall?" she ventured softly.

Randall adjusted his spectacles and coughed nonchalantly. He avoided her eyes, opting to direct his gaze instead at a cigarette-burn on the linoleum near his right foot. "Our ratings will soar with the reinstatement of the BBC's best anchor-cum-hero to The Hour and our's will remain the greatest current-affairs show on British television," he spoke quickly, his voice tired.

Sighing, Lix gazed pointedly at their entwined hands. "You know what I meant."

There was no need to elaborate. Randall swallowed, feeling once again, as he did often these days, so incredibly powerless to that omnipotent being—fate or love or God or otherwise—which had toyed with them so wickedly in the past.

"We can't possibly know," he said, still staring at the floor. "But—" and now he raised his head to meet her gaze, a smile suddenly teasing at the corners of his mouth, "—but I _know_ that our future is shared. I will wake up beside you in that ridiculously small flat of ours every day until I die, and in spirit thereafter."

Lix smiled weakly. "Sorry. I shouldn't—"

"Don't be."

She looked at him questioningly, her expression half exasperated, half lost.

"Don't be sorry. For being frightened, I mean." He took a shuddering breath and drew her hands to his chest. "I love you. Always have, always will. Nothing will ever, ever threaten that again."

Lix nodded and squeezed his hand appreciatively in hers before letting go. "And I love you, too."

Pecking her softly on the cheek, Randall smiled. "Come," he said, "Let's join the toast."

They each took a drink and raised their glasses to Hector's slurred words: "Freddie, my man!"

"To Freddie," the murmur resounded through the office.

"And don't bloody well get yourself killed next time!"

"That's enough, Hector," Lix grinned, moving across the room to direct the man into the safety of a chair. "A little less Roman _imperator_ would be nice."

The day passed with an air of unusual joviality after that and as such was also uncharacteristically unproductive. Bel dismissed the office early after growing tired of scolding Sissy for gazing enthralled over the top of her typewriter at Freddie scooting about the room and subsequently forgetting messages left on the telephone—yet even she was glad to escape and enjoy the afternoon pushing Freddie's chair around the common and together gleaning far too much satisfaction from purposefully frightening pigeons.

It had been emphatically agreed—as they shrugged on their coats and exchanged pleasant goodbyes in the stairwell—that they would meet at the pub on the corner of Shepherd's Bush Rd at half six to share another celebratory drink in light of Freddie's return. The office had emptied quickly in an oddly frantic flurry, its occupants leaving in their wake the only two individuals whose minds no longer yearned to break free from the bonds of ritual work.

"Aren't you leaving?"

"Not yet."

Lix, leaning against the doorframe to Randall's office, nodded, unfolded her arms and reached into her coat pocket for a cigarette. She had suspected as much.

"You know," she ventured slowly, "You can't just go on burying yourself in unnecessary paperwork like this."

In his mind's eye, his hesitation was a cool effort to ignore her. Quickly giving up on this notion, he sighed and glanced up at her wearily. "Why not?" he said quietly. "You do."

She laughed somewhat unconvincingly and moved to across the room to him. Shoving away a stack of papers and a small wooden elephant, she perched on the edge of the desk beside his chair. He grasped her hand in an instant and began to massage her knuckles absentmindedly with his thumb. With his other hand he reached for his pen again.

"Uh-uh." Lix tugged on his hand and shot him a look of mock disapproval.

He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Randall, for once you are not picking Option B."

"What's—?"

She sat up straighter on his desk and cleared her throat, eyeing him sternly. "Option B is 'Re-read a report from the Broadcasting Standards Authority'—"

Randall quickly closed the file lying in front of him.

"—which is usually chosen ahead of Option A: 'Sit in awful despair'."

Suddenly engrossed in tracing the veins in the back of her hand, Randall avoided her eyes to venture, "Option C?"

She shook her head, smiling.

He sighed in mock defeat. "I suppose Option C means going to look for you, my dear."

She smirked. "Nice to know I come _after_ the BSA report. Very charming."

"Well broadcasting standards are very important… Evident, I suppose, in that there's an authority in their name…" He glanced at the file and smiled wryly. "God, they're a boring lot. Perhaps a couple of breasts bobbing behind Mr Madden on a field placement shot would really liven the show. Could be the key to boosting our ratings."

Lix kicked his knee playfully. "What about a few 'bloodys' and an 'arse' for maintaining public interest and aiding the communication of current affairs to the nation."

Randall grinned and pushed the file to one side. "Now, now, don't shock me, Lix. That indeed would be the day…" He stood slowly and reached for his coat that lay draped over the back of his chair. Lix watched him with widened eyes.

"Darling, where are you going?"

He opened his briefcase beside her on the desk and began systematically removing its contents into a pile next to his typewriter. He was also airily smiling.

"Are we still on Option C?"

He turned to her at this and smirked. "With you, Lix, I no longer find myself in the type of situation in which options are, in fact, required at all." He raised his eyebrows and bent over her to kiss the top of her head. "Really, anything could happen."

"Well the coat-in-hand thing suggests you aren't about to make love to me on this desk."

He paused and smiled. "Usually I can manage waiting until we are home…"

"I'm not sure the stationery cupboard would attest to that."

"_Usually_, I said…"

Lix grinned as he moved to stand over her again and she reached for his tie, tracing its length with her thumb and forefinger. Her eyes glinted dangerously.

"Oh dear," he murmured, "The tie manoeuvre?"

"What?" She tugged and at once his lips fell against hers.

* * *

Randall and Lix never married. There's was a bond so strong that no wedding was, in fact, ever required in either's mind's eye to validate the assurance of each other's love. Nor was marriage, in light of their past attempt at such, entirely appropriate for the manner in which they now chose to live; together free, forever loved.

Friends, lovers—to each other a confidant and comforter—it was fair to say that Lix and Randall's shared ever-after was, indeed, a happy one.

**The end.**


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